


"Your forefathers bubbled prettily in the slime beneath my feet."  (a.k.a., Just Another Way to Say I Love You.)

by Zanne



Series: John Winchester/Illyria 'verse [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-12
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Illyria meet up in Hell, Lucifer wants Illyria gone because she's annoying him so he hooks her up with John and sends them back to the mortal plane. Hilarity ensues. It's like a buddy cop movie gone bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas lyonie17 and hakirby. Kripke owns the Winchesters and Whedon owns Illyria. (Originally posted: 2/12/07)

“So…how long has she been gracing us with her presence anyway?” the short, orange-skinned demon asked his green-fleshed compatriot sitting across from him in the lounge. 

“ _Years_ now. After that LA debacle, she had to go _somewhere_ , and Big Lou offered to give her a place to stay…knew her from the good ol’ days, he said.” The green demon tore a strip of flesh off the bone in front of him, blood smearing over his chin. 

“Used to be a Big Cheese, I hear,” the first demon commented, motioning the waitress for another round. “She’s not much now. Scary-ass bitch, I’ll give you that, but she’s gettin’ by on reputation more than anything.” The orange demon swallowed the last of his drink and slammed it on the table. 

“And she’s pissing off Big Lou with all the commentary. ‘You used to mewl like a strangled kitten before I dredged you from the muck to serve at my feet’,” the green demon mimicked wickedly. He barked, baring curved fangs before attempting to muffle his laughter. “You shoulda seen Big Lou’s face! The Dark Lord of All That is Evil being scolded like a schoolgirl!” The demon snickered more quietly, glancing around to see if anyone had heard him. Creatures tended to end up as living area rugs in Lucifer’s bathroom if he heard them laughing about the situation. 

“Yeah. The Boss doesn’t like to have his ‘big sis’ around making him look bad. She’s drivin’ him crazy,” his companion agreed. 

“She’s been spending a lot of time in your neck of the Lower Realms, I heard,” the green demon hinted, taking another drink. 

“Lucky me. She just stands there and stares with those blank blue eyes as I’m torturing the poor schmuck. Talk about performance anxiety!” he complained, nabbing one of the wings off the plate. “She seems to like him.”

“ _Like_ him?!” 

“She hasn’t called him ooze or threatened to tear out his internal organs even once. I think it’s love,” the orange-fleshed demon snickered. 

“That guy was born under a lucky star. Her _interest_ musta earned him his one-way ticket outta here.” The green demon offered this tidbit with a triumphant smirk. “Ol’ Yellow Eyes was fit to be tied, but Big Lou put his foot down - right on his neck - and told him to shut the fuck up about it or he was gonna skin him like an apple and roast him an inch at a time.” 

“What?! He’s gettin’ _out_? Even after….” 

“Yep,” the fellow demon nodded wisely, pleased to be passing on such a juicy bit of gossip. “Big Lou wants Illyria _gone_. She can’t be released without a…she calls it a priest or some such shit…but Big Lou calls it a babysitter, so he’s lettin’ him go.” 

“Whoa,” his pal said, his red eyes widening. “John Winchester’s gettin’ out. Remind me to stay away from Ol’ Yellow Eyes for the next hundred years or so. He’s gonna be _pissed_.” 

His compatriot took another gulp of the viscous purple sludge before commenting with a laugh. “It ain’t gonna be no walk in the park for Winchester, ya know. He’s been bound to Illyria for eternity. If _that_ ain’t torture, I don’t know what is.” 

                                                               ~~~~~~~~~~ 

A soft breeze rustled through the churchyard, twirling the few remaining leaves off the winter-worn branches and twisting them into lazy circles across the snow dusted ground. With an audible sigh, the church doors swung open as if weary of the burden they held, emitting two stark figures – one a world-worn man with dark hair and a grizzled beard just beginning to fill in, his eyes holding the weight of the unknown, and the other a stiff-backed young female clad in blood-dark leather, the blue of her eyes and hair startling in the whitened world into which they emerged. 

She glanced around, unblinking, before muttering in an ironically melodious monotone, “Lucifer always did think he was amusing.” 

John Winchester hunched in on himself, stuffing his hands in his pockets as the cold air wrapped around him, crushing him in the startling reality of _living_. His breath ghosted out, more proof that he was here – _alive_ \- making his wan cheeks flush with hope. “I think I’ve gotten used to a more…tropical…climate the past few months.” 

Illyria’s cheek quirked in what may have been the beginning of a smile, or may have been just a facial tic as she readjusted to the mortal plane. 

John turned to his blue-haired companion and said awkwardly, “I…uh…know you had something to do with getting me out. Thank you for that, ma’am. But I’ve got to get to my boys. I need to know they’re OK. So I’ll say goodbye to you and we’ll head our separate ways.” With a curt nod, he turned and straightened his back, trying to keep from just _running_ – running to get away, running to go where he wanted, running to know he was really _here_. 

Illyria cocked her head to the side, curiosity an emotion beneath her, watching the human walk off with an unwavering determination, his breath coming faster the farther he got away from her, from the memory of where he had been. Then he faltered, falling back as if he’d run into a wall. He paused, then tried again…and again…until he fell back exhausted, falling to his knees as he tried to catch his breath. 

“What have you done to me?” he cried out in rage, tilting his head back and screaming his impotence to the gray winter sky. 

He felt more than heard her approach behind him, her presence a solid weight in his chest that he hadn’t noticed before. She stood still beside him. “Lucifer mentioned something about a leash. I did not know this was what he intended.” 

“ _I_ ,” John Winchester stated with an undercurrent of anger as he got unsteadily to his feet, “am no one’s _pet_ , especially not a creature such as you. If that’s what you brought me back for, then you can kill me right now and I’ll happily go right back to Hell.” 

“When I ruled this world, my pets could rend entire civilizations limb from limb. They stood taller than your skyscrapers and frolicked at my feet in the blood and bones of your ancestors. You are not worthy to be my pet,” Illyria stated blandly, blinking once as if taking him in fully for the first time. “You are my Guide. I cannot be here without one, and neither Heaven nor Hell want me…or you, for that matter. You will take the place of my Wesley and teach me how to be human.” 

A ghost of an emotion crossed her still, white face – whether it be sadness, anger, or merely the coming of a sneeze, John couldn’t tell. He turned his head, holding his breath a second before muttering, “You chose the wrong man for that job. I forgot how to do that a long time ago.” 

“Then we can learn together,” Illyria declared steadily. “Let us go to your progeny - I wish to know the fruit of your loins. Do they have pancakes?” 

John blinked at her series of absurd non-sequiturs before barking a laugh. He looked startled for a moment at his own reaction before turning serious. “We need to establish a few ground rules before we go anywhere. Let’s head back into the church and have ourselves a nice little chat.” Without waiting for her agreement, he spun on his heel and marched back into the building they had just emerged from, Illyria deigning to follow behind him.

                                                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Tucked around a rusty heating vent, they sat facing each other, John’s distrust more than adequately filling the space between them. “An Old One, eh?” John asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “My boys and I would have hunted you down if things were different.” 

Illyria brushed her still damp hair from her face. “If things were different, I would be leading my armies across the dimensions and crushing whole worlds in my grasp, bathing in the blood of your defeat as if it were….” 

“Got it the first time, Illyria. Thank you for your…vivid descriptions.” 

“You are welcome,” she replied, staring at him blankly with a bird-like tilt of the head. “And you would have been turned inside out and sewn together again to serve as my puppet had you tried that holy water trick on me…if things were different.” Her eyelids shuttered open and closed, her moist skin still drying. 

“Had to be sure,” he said unapologetically. John took a deep breath, a slight tremor shaking his body. “I remember things from…there. I saw you watching when they…did what they did.” He glanced up, his eyes suddenly hard. “Why’d you pick me? They wanted you out of there so badly, it sounds like you could have had anyone, but you picked me. Why?” 

Illyria reached up towards his hair, her hand falling back into her lap when he flinched away. “It is a strange feeling. I do not understand it.” Her expression shifted from its usual statuesque stillness to something John barely recognized as different. “You remind me of Wesley.” 

“Your previous…Guide? I’m sorry about what happened to him,” John murmured soothingly. 

“He died a champion. It was a good death.” She cocked her head again, aiming her bold blue gaze on his weary features. “You feel the same…in here,” she said, patting at her chest. “You have the same emptiness – the loss of something so vital to living, that you feel dead on the inside. I feel death in you, John Winchester – death and a powerful hatred…but also a burning desire to do what is right, no matter the cost. You stink of it.” She adjusted her gaze to somewhere over his head and added, “Wesley had that.” 

“I told you about Mary – what that demon did to my family.” Illyria blinked in what he took as agreement. “That changes a man.” He gulped a breath, unable to talk about this any further. “Ok, so they sent me back to keep an eye on you,” he held up a hand when Illyria looked ready to go on another primordial ooze, lower being diatribe, “… _guide_ you, sorry. We’re pretty much stuck together….” 

“Until the dimensions melt from the sky and sink into the unknown abyss of Creation to simmer for eons in the Time after Time until a new world is ready to emerge from the muck and crawl its way back into Being.” 

“Have you ever thought of writing children’s books?” John asked with a gruff laugh, pushing his horror at this idea of eternity to the back of his mind. “You could be the next Dr. Seuss.” She blinked at him with her steadfast gaze and he waved it off. “OK, for a _long_ time.” 

He leaned back against the side of a pew, shivering in the chill air. “Let’s recap - I can’t get farther than thirty feet from you, we’ve got no money, no transportation, I’m freezing, and you look like a triple X Smurf.” He tilted his head back, grinning at the ceiling. “Dean would love this.” He wrapped his arms around his knees for body heat. “So what are we going to do?” 

Illyria cocked her head in what he guessed was deep thought mode. “I can change my form, if you wish it.” Before he could reply, her icy white skin darkened to a pale olive, her eyes bleeding to a brown as dark as her hair as her blood leather armor shrank into a beige skirt and pale blue sweater. 

“So this is Winifred Burkle?” John asked warily, mulling over the bits of information Illyria had shared earlier. 

“Pleased ta meetcha, Mr. Winchester,” Fred agreed, shaking him cordially by the hand. Her Texan twang warmed his heart, bringing out a smile before he even realized the expression had dared to cross his face. 

With a start, he dropped her hand and scooted back, catching his breath sharply in his throat. “Excuse me, ma’am, but fuck, that’s freaky.” 

“Oh, aren’t y’all the sweetest thing? I’m not a married gal. Ya’ll can call me Fred, if you’d like.” Her mocha eyes twinkled charmingly at him, a small smile blooming on her heart shaped face. 

“New rule. When we’re alone, you revert back to Illyria, OK? I can deal with Illyria better than this, I think. This is just a little too creepy for me.” 

“Deal!” she twittered, getting to her feet. “Now let’s go gather some money. We’ve got those charmin’ boys of yours to meet!”  



	2. Chapter 2

Turned out, once he explained the rules to her, Fred was a pool shark. They earned some quick cash at a bar down the road, picking the rest from the pockets of the muggers that tried to shake them down in the alley outside. Grabbing a couple of hamburgers on the way to the nearest motel, John rented them a room where they could recoup for the night.

“This room is small and smells of vermin,” Illyria commented, shifting upon passing the threshold. “Could we not abuse more men and find a domicile more befitting my magnitude?”

“And what magnitude is that?” John asked distractedly.

“The returning God-King and her Guide,” Illyria informed him.

John gazed at her, arching a skeptical eyebrow. “No,” he answered shortly. “This is fine.” He made his way over to the heater and turned it on full blast, still shivering despite the rise in temperature. Heading for the entrance, he pulled a couple of stolen saltshakers from his pockets, carefully twisting off the caps and pouring heavy lines across the doors and windows.

“That is useless,” Illyria declared pointedly.

“It keeps out the bad guys,” John stated with conviction, making sure the lines were thick and unbroken.

“It would not keep out any who matter,” she opined, pausing to study the white line marking the carpet around the doorframe.

“I’m happy if it keeps out even _one_ , “John replied, tossing the empty saltshakers into the trash. “I got us a double so that we’d each have our own bed. Couldn’t afford two rooms, sorry.”

“I do not sleep,” Illyria replied.

John rolled his eyes. “You could have mentioned that earlier! The extra bed costs!” He sighed and slumped with exhaustion onto the nearest bed. “OK, a single from now on to save some cash. Deal?”

Illyria ignored him, standing at rest in the middle of the room. “Do you eat, either?” he asked, peeking in the bag at her still-wrapped hamburger.

“My body does not require the breakdown of nutrients for power. That is a flawed system.”

“More for me, then,” he replied, taking a huge bite.

She studied him with her unblinking gaze as he finished eating, prodding him to ask, “I notice you’re…staring. Do you need something?”

“Are you not going to shed your outer skins to gain more comfort from your rest? Wesley always did. Then he would put on something with stripes or paisley. Do _you_ need paisley to sleep?”

John, the battle-hardened Marine who had faced monsters from people’s worst nightmares, blushed a bright red and stammered, “I’ll…uh, change in the bathroom,” before bolting into the small convenience and slamming the door behind him. While Illyria may not technically count as a woman, she had a female form and it had been years since John felt comfortable enough around a lady to relax, much less change clothes or sleep. This might turn out to be harder than he originally thought – and he had thought it was going to be pretty damn near impossible.

                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John was torn from his slumber, his throat raw from screaming and his sweat-dampened skin clammy to the touch. Illyria stood beside him, stiff and unmoving, a solid presence against the side of the bed. She briefly touched his forehead before stating in a quiet monotone, “Nothing would dare harm you now. Return to sleep.”

Surprisingly comforted, John did as he was told.

                                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John awoke a second time to find himself alone, Illyria apparently in ‘off’ mode over in the corner of the room. He crept over to the bathroom so as not to disturb her, needing the solitude of a scalding shower to orient himself for the day. He spent longer than usual under the spray, trying unsuccessfully to wash the memories of the past several months from both his mind and body.

After twenty minutes he gave up, sliding the shower curtain back and yelping in surprise as Illyria’s brilliant blue eyes met his, noses only inches apart. “Your rinsing took very long,” she said bluntly. “Is this usual?”

John flushed, holding the shower curtain in front of him as he fumbled for a towel. “OK, new rule. No walking into the bathroom when I’m in here. It’s not polite.”

“Then do not take so long next time,” she replied, turning on her boot heel and stalking towards the door. John caught a glimpse of her face in the bathroom mirror as she left the room and could have sworn he saw a smirk on that winter-white visage.

                                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John knew that their priority was a car. They couldn’t stay in this one-horse town very long – the pool hustlers knew them by sight and they would have a group of very angry young men looking for them soon.

“I don’t know what else to do, Illyria. Credit cards take too long and we need some quick cash.” John sighed in something like defeat. “We’ll have to hitchhike to the next town and hope we can scrounge enough money to consider a car. We need to get mobile and fast.”

Illyria stared at him impassively. He was never sure if she bothered listening to him or if she were too busy studying the dust motes in the air to pay any attention at all. With her typical irritating precision, she blinked and stated, “We could ask the Gharluk demon that scuttled out of the bar when we arrived. Trades are their business. We could barter for a conveyance of some kind.”

John swallowed a sigh. “New rule. If you see a demon, could you please tell me next time?”

“There is no need to kill him, Hunter. They are a harmless breed,” Illyria replied, hands folded behind her back.

“Good to know, but I’d still like to be made aware. Got it?” he reprimanded sharply.

Illyria’s eyes tightened only slightly before she asked, “All of them? Or just those that pose a threat?”

John paused a second before replying, beginning to recognize the subtle cues of reading a once Demon-King. “How many since we got here?”

“I have sensed one hundred thirty-two, but only one was humanoid. The other one hundred thirty-one are the vermin that infest the walls of this motel.” She sniffed, a look of displeasure nearly making its way onto her face. “I said we should have picked another place to rest.”

John buried his face in his hand, counting to ten before rubbing his beard thoughtfully, amending his previous statement. “OK, just the threats then.” He raised his head to look her straight in the eye. “Not dangerous?”

He took Illyria’s slow blink as agreement.

                                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wizened old man in the ratty knit cap squealed sharply and skittered for cover when he saw the two figures walking down the snowy lane to his run-down cabin. “I ain’t done ya no harm! Go away!” He peeked over the fender of a rusting Plymouth, eyes widening in fear before ducking back behind the car.

“Calm down, mister,” John shouted as soothingly as he could. He drew his hands from his pockets, showing he came unarmed. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“I’m not scared of you, human!” the old man called out. “It’s her! I don’t know what flavor she is, but she’s….”

“Illyria,” she completed as she appeared suddenly behind him, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him like a terrier with a rat as he bleated in terror. “And I have come to barter.”

“Take what you want!” he squeaked. “Anything! Just leave me be!”

Illyria turned her cool gaze onto John, indicating with a sharp tilt of her chin to list what was needed. With a gruff chuckle, he stepped closer to the wriggling Gharluk, barely missing being swiped by the rat-like tail wriggling wildly from under his coat. “Um…we need a car. Some weapons would be nice – guns and some hunting knives if you have ‘em…ammunition, too. Oh, and rocksalt.” John huddled in on himself, breathing harshly onto his cupped hands to warm them, the tips of his fingers already turning a pale blue.

“Sure! Sure! Got it all!” the Gharluk gurgled, straining for breath as Illyria’s grip tightened. John felt a momentary flash of pity for the pathetic old demon. It was obvious the Gharluk didn’t see many of Illyria’s temperament around here.

“A thick coat and some clothes are also necessary,” she added, giving him another shake. “My Guide is cold.”

John glanced up in surprise, eyeing Illyria with a grudging astonishment. She gazed at him mildly, her grip on the Gharluk not loosening in the slightest. “Let him go, Illyria. He’s got some stuff to fetch.” Obediently, she released her grip, dropping the demon flat on his tail, allowing him to skitter off to collect what they needed.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t kill him?” John asked her curiously once the Gharluk was out of earshot, uncomfortable with the idea of allowing a demon to go free.

Illyria gazed emptily in the distance, saying dismissively, “It would equate to killing a small, yapping dog. Intrinsically satisfying, but with no real purpose.” She shrugged, turning to face him. “Kill him if you like.”

Nearly an hour later, the Gharluk had piled nearly everything they asked for in the back of a beat-up ’76 Jeep Cherokee coated in a hideous orange-red shade, a few large floral decals pasted on the side. It hurt John’s manly sensibilities to even look at it, but it was the best of the lot with the cabin space to carry the extras he needed.

“I only had one hunting knife, a revolver with no ammo, and a rifle with a couple’a boxes of shells. I threw the jeans and shirts into the back with a sack of rock salt,” the demon puffed tiredly, his skin looking a pale grey from exertion.

“Let us go,” Illyria demanded, standing stiffly beside the car. John placed a hand on her arm, keeping her in place even as her blue eyes glared at him in something like disbelief. “You touch me without permission?” she asked bluntly. Her eyes locked with his and he met her unwavering gaze without flinching for the first time. “Bold, Hunter…your courage grows the longer you are here.” Her blue-tinged lips quirked before falling into their usual clean lines, her tentative approval granted.

The ghost of a smile crossed his face as he whispered to her under his breath, “Time for your first lesson, Princess Charming,” before he turned to speak with the Gharluk. “I know we asked a lot of you, and I apologize if we appeared a little rude.” He arched an eyebrow at Illyria, who refused to look even the tiniest bit contrite, instead focusing her gaze at a point above the Gharluk’s head. “We owe you. Is there anything you need done?”

The old man twisted his cap nervously in his hands, rocking back and forth on his feet. He peered up at John, not even daring to glance at the one-time Demon-King he had heard rumor of so many years ago. “Um…,” he hesitated. “I heard she called ya a Hunter?” John nodded cautiously, burrowing further into the dark green winter coat the old man had dug up for him, still shivering in the cool air. The Gharluk shuffled uneasily before stuttering, “I got kin a few counties over. A thunderbird’s been pickin’ off his sheep and he don’t know how to get rid of it.”

John’s features sharpened at the mention. “What about people? Has it gotten any humans?”

The Gharluk shrugged non-committally. “I dunno. He just goes on about his sheep. Said he’d trade me some spring lambs for some help.” The demon smiled, showing sharpened incisors. “I’d sure like some lamb next year.”

John wrinkled his nose in disgust at demons’ typical lack of concern over humans before asking, “Where?”

“Ashby. Ask for Zeke Herimon. Tell ‘im Pete sent ya for the sheep.” The Gharluk bounced excitedly, uncaring when John slammed the car door shut, gripping the wheel in his hands to control his anger.

“We get to kill something?” Illyria asked calmly. At John’s curt nod she nearly purred, turning her eyes onto the road ahead. “Good. It has been too long since I have tasted the blood of my enemy. Hell was so _dull_.”

John emitted a startled snort, saying, “For _you_ maybe,” before turning on the heater to high and shifting the Jeep into gear. “Suit up, Illyria. We’re goin’ out.” With a turn of her head she shifted, allowing Fred to wave gaily out the car window at the capering demon left behind in the curl of their exhaust.  



	3. Chapter 3

The snow-dusted field, dotted with dark lumps that in the daylight would be sheep, glistened eerily in the glow of the quarter moon, creating a mismatched quilt of gray, blue, and purple shadows across the landscape. A ring of evergreens curved darkly around the edges of the skyline, offering John and Illyria protection from the gusts of wind blowing persistently over the open expanse before them.

“This is not what I expected,” Illyria declared loudly into the still night air from her position a few feet away. John shushed her with a wave of his hand, but she ignored him, continuing, “We just sit, waiting for it to come to us.” She turned her blue eyes, glowing dimly in the moonlight, towards John in the shadows of the brush. “This is cowardice. A true warrior would go in fighting, shedding his blood along with that of his enemy until he stood hip-deep in the ashes of victory.”

“No,” John replied absently, keeping his eyes trained on the darkened sky as clouds slid over the moon. “This is _hunting_.” He gave her a half-grin, flitting his gaze over to hers for a moment. “We mortals like to keep our blood on the inside.”

An unquantifiable expression slid over her features and she opened her mouth, poised to speak, when a rumbling cry shook the air. Waiting the span of one heartbeat, John stood and took aim, blasting a hole in one of the thunderbird’s wings, sending it spiraling down like a maple leaf. It gave a surprised squawk, sheep bleating in terror as they awakened, scrambling clumsily over the snow.

“Slice and dice, Illyria – head and heart. Then it burns.” Raising the rifle once more, he took aim at the floundering creature, blowing open its skull in a spray of gray matter.

Illyria pounced, carving open its leathery skin and yanking out its heart with a sickening squelch. She tilted her head towards him, blue eyes burning through the fine mist of red droplets coating her white skin. “Disappointingly easy, Hunter.”

As they stood together a few moments later, watching the fire turn the creature into ash, John frowned thoughtfully, nervously stroking the barrel of his weapon before fumbling for some shells to reload. Clicking them into place, he admitted warily, “You’re right, Illyria. That one seemed rather small to be causing so much trouble. Keep your eyes….” Four talons erupted through his chest, his body jerking spastically as his muscle coordination momentarily shut down.

The mother thunderbird reared up behind him, spreading her wings wide enough to block out the moon as she screamed in raucous anger. Dropping John’s body to the floor, she bobbed forward, hissing at Illyria in warning as she approached the ashes of her young. Illyria’s cold eyes flashed as she swung the blade wildly at the monster before her, stripes of blood dribbling down its cobblestone skin.

The sharp sound of a rifle cocking behind them made the thunderbird pause in its attack, before its body rocked with the force of both barrels emptying into its back. With another ear-splitting screech, it turned, swiping its talons though the meat of John’s belly, blood and viscera spilling out and steaming in the chilly winter night.

With bitter fury, Illyria swung with all her strength, the knife catching on the thing’s spine as the blade tore through its throat, its head rolling to a stop near John’s twitching body.

Dropping the shining red blade to the ground, Illyria fell to her knees by her Guide, a look of rebuke warring with one that might have been consternation. “Hunter,” Illyria chastised stolidly, pulling his head onto her lap, “you are supposed to keep your blood on the inside.”

John coughed weakly, his breath a bubbling rasp in his throat as blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. “Guess I’m outta practice,” he joked tiredly, struggling for breath with every word. “Take a few months vacation and look what happens.”

“We will practice tomorrow,” Illyria stated. “I cannot have my Guide leaving his bodily fluids on the field of battle.”

“Yeah…tomorrow,” John answered, feebly patting her hand in reassurance upon noting the almost imperceptible tightening of her features. As another wave of pain wracked his body, he tried to focus on those bright blue eyes, the only color left in his darkening world. “I’m…,” he coughed up another gout of blood, his skin growing colder by the second, “…sorry” – _for failing_  went unspoken. He shuddered, opening his eyes once more. “I don’t want t’go back there,” he admitted softly, fear deepening his words as he tried to clutch her arm with nerveless fingers.

“Ssshhh,” Illyria whispered somewhat soothingly, brushing his hair off his face. “You worry too much, Hunter.”

John smiled through the pain, slurring something so low she had to lean forward to hear him, her blue-brown hair curtaining them both in a soft shield of silence. “Call me…John.” With that, his breathing stilled and his frozen, unblinking gaze stayed trained on the stars.

                                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John didn’t remember drinking the night before, but his entire body hurt and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a shower drain. “Aspirin,” he groaned under his breath. “I would kill for some aspirin.”

“We have no medical supplies,” a familiar voice stated distinctly, making his head pound even more. “But I have sustenance. You will eat.” At that directive, John squinted up at the pale sunrise, trying to make out the shadowy figure backlit by the morning light.

“Illyria?” he grunted in confusion, pushing himself up and moaning as his stomach cramped uncomfortably. He glanced down, tugging up his shirt to study the new pale-pink flesh stretched tightly over his belly. He rubbed a hand over his skin, hissing painfully between his teeth at the rough feel of his fingers. “Wha-…?”

“You were disemboweled,” Illyria explained with her usual directness, shoving some cooked meat on a stick into his hand. “You are better now.”

“I was…dead,” John said, blinking in surprise. “I know dead, and I was it.”

Illyria cocked her head to the side, poised on the balls of her feet as she squatted beside him. “We are bound until the Time after Time,” Illyria stated in reminder. Understanding flickered in his eyes and she eased him towards the truth by adding, “You can be hurt, but you will heal.” She leaned forward, tightening his grip on his breakfast.

John looked confounded, absently tearing off a chunk of the meat she had provided, grateful for the warmth of the crackling fire located so closely beside him. She waited until he had eaten most of what she had given him before saying, “I would prefer you not to die again, even for such a short time. It left an ache in my shell.” She bared her teeth at the fire. “I did not like it.”

John chuckled grimly. “I didn’t like it much myself. New rule – no dying.” He took another bite, his chewing slowing as a thoughtful look edged across his face. “Um…what am I eating?”

“It cannot kill you, so you should not ask,” Illyria replied, her lips quirking slightly. 

John groaned, setting aside the rest of his meal before he lost what he’d already eaten.

                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were on the road within the next few hours, with a generous “donation” from Zeke of a First Aid kit, a new winter jacket plus mittens, a pile of ammunition for both the revolver and rifle, a machete, and some foodstuffs. They also had a new destination – Zeke mentioned a poltergeist bothering a nest of Verksan demons he knew in Mankato.

John tensed, gripping the handle of the passenger side door as Fred swerved around a slow-moving horse trailer. “I thought you said you knew how to drive,” he admonished, easing his hand off his still aching stomach.

“I do!” Fred chirped cheerily. “My daddy taught me on the tractor when I was fourteen and I’ve been doin’ it ever since.”

John eyed her warily, clarifying, “You mean Fred learned…but has Illyria ever been behind the wheel of a car?”

A flicker of stillness moved over Fred’s bright countenance, her brown eyes taking on a blue tinge. “No, but it is the same. What the shell knows, I know.” With a snap, her smile burst forth and Fred scolded, “So quit ‘yer bellyachin’, John. I’ll get us there in one piece!”

“God, I hope so,” he grimaced at the irony, wincing as she missed a Honda’s fender by an inch. John reached to adjust the heater, making sure it was still on high. He relaxed back against the seat, the dull throbbing in his belly fading in intensity with every passing hour. “You know, I never thought I’d turn out to be some kind of demonic messenger boy. Who knew lesser demons needed Hunters?”

“Lesser demons are just like people,” Fred acknowledged. “Just scalier or with more teeth. They can’t just magic away the supernatural whenever they want.”

John looked doubtful. “We’ll need to make some pit-stops to stock up on cash…and check out the papers on-line for some tips. We can’t depend on being pointed from job to job. Oh, and remind me to fill out some credit card applications. We need some - the sooner the better.”

“Yeah,” Fred agreed. “We still gotta find those boys of yours!”

John bit his lip, gnawing on it as he stared at the scenery flashing by out the window. “I’m not so sure,” he finally admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Fred flashed him a glance and he breathed a quick warning, making her lock her eyes on the road ahead. “I’m dead, Fred…at least to them I am. I’ve been in the ground about eight months – if I know Dean, I’m not even a collection of ashes anymore. Salted, burned, and scattered – nothing left of John Winchester but his two boys and a truck sold for scrap.”

He held his breath, regaining control over his emotions, before continuing, “It’s not _right_ to open those wounds again. Besides, how would I explain this to them? Explain _you_? We’d just be something else to hunt. They’d shoot us with rock salt faster than you could blink your pretty blue eyes at them.” He snickered, leaning his head back against the seat.

“I’ve been thinking…this gives me the opportunity to take out the Demon that destroyed my family without worrying about my boys getting in the way. I can protect them the only way I have left, by killing that _thing_.” He puffed out a breath, mittened hands clenching futilely in his lap.

Fred shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking from the road back to him. John may have understood Illyria’s stillness far better than Fred’s constant motion, but he could still tell when a woman had something to say. “Spill it, Fred.”

A torrent of words overran over each other, taking him a minute to decipher before he got what she was saying. “If you’re talking about the Pyrothia demon, he’s serving as Satan’s shower curtain for a while. Lucifer didn’t take his objection to your release at all well, so he’s being punished.”

John blinked slowly. “What’s a while?”

“You can never be sure, but most likely the next couple of centuries or so. He won’t be seen on the mortal plane within your sons’ lifetimes, most likely.” Fred leaned over, whispering conspiratorially, “Lucifer can hold a grudge for a _long_ time.”

John continued to blink in nearly perfectly measured increments, holding his breath for almost a minute before erupting into loud peals of laughter, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he rolled on the seat, grunting every so often as his stomach cramped in complaint at the taxing of his healing muscles.

“I’ve spent the last twenty-three years of my life hunting that son-of-a-bitch down, and Satan is using him as a shower curtain?” John swallowed a laugh, drunkenly rolling his head back and forth on the seat. His face sagged once the panicked amusement ended, and his head fell forward until his chin rested on his chest. “Is it wrong to say I feel cheated?” he admitted softly, studying his mittened hands lying open in his lap, now useless after all those apparently wasted years. “I want to kill him...no, I _need_ to kill him. Now there is _nothing_.”

“Your boys aren’t nothin’,” Fred pointed out. “With the Pyrothia elsewhere, they’re finally safe.” She nodded her head happily, giving him a cheerful wink. “‘Sides, John, we’re immortal. We’ll just kill ‘im the next time he rolls through town.”

John laughed softly, tilting his head to glance over at her once more. “You’re right, Fred. Gotta look on the bright side of…life.”

                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~

“That’s weird,” Sam announced, the cellphone cupped to his ear as he slammed the car door shut, ignoring his brother’s usual background protests about treating her more gently. Sam cradled the small phone in his hand, scanning the number listed on the screen before clicking out of voicemail. “You remember Gilbert?”

Dean glanced at him quizzically, dragging the weapons duffel out of the trunk. “Dad’s friend? Haven’t heard from him in a while. What’s he want?”

Sam frowned at the phone, his brow furrowed in confusion. “He left a message for Dad. Said he saw him leaving Ashby and he wanted to catch up.”

Dean’s hand stilled on the doorknob leading to their room. His tone leaving no room for argument, Dean stated firmly, “Dad’s dead, Sam.”

“I _know_ that,” Sam huffed impatiently. He glanced back down at the phone dwarfed in his large hand. “Still….,”

“Still nothin’,” Dean cut him off abruptly. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

                                                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John and Fred exited the bar laughing, pockets flush with cash from their recent bout at the pool table. “Fred,” John murmured conspiratorially as he threw his arm over her shoulders, oddly relaxed after several beers, “you’re welcome on my team any time.” He chuckled, playfully pushing her away as he headed towards the Jeep, saying off-handedly over his shoulder, “You help us win just by batting your pretty brown eyes at them and asking questions about velocity and trajectory ratios.”

Fred giggled, stopping to work a rock out of her shoe when she was thrown face first into the gravel. “Outta the way, little lady. We want to speak to your mister first,” the large man from the bar growled, followed by his three friends.

John spun around when he heard Fred hit the gravel, hands up defensively as the four men from the bar surrounded him in a rough semi-circle, cutting him off from Fred. He cast an eye in her direction to see if she were all right, shaking his head slightly as her eyes tinged blue. Fred frowned, petulant at his refusal to let her change, but remained as she was, a helpless human female.

The large man smashed his fist into his palm with a loud thwack, his friends holding back as he approached. “We don’t like getting hustled,” he explained. “It ain’t mannerly to come into our town and to take our money like that so I think I’m gonna have to ask for it back.” His friends hooted drunkenly in agreement, urging him on as he took a wild swing at John’s head.

John ducked, giving him an elbow to the ribs as he tried to stay out of the reach of the surrounding men. One kicked out, catching John in the knee as he dodged another swing by the large man before him, making John fall to one knee in the gravel.

With an animalistic growl, Fred pounced, landing on the back of one of John’s attackers, raking her nails over his eyes rather than snapping his neck as she grumbled, “Your rules, John, are too limiting.” The man shrieked, reaching behind him to grab her by the hair, pulling her over his shoulder with a lucky dip of his body, and she landed flat on her back on the ground. He kicked out blindly, blood leaking into his eyes, hitting her in the ribs with a muffled grunt.

John snapped, lunging at Fred’s attacker while throwing his shoulders and fists at whoever got in his way, trying to get to Fred. John screamed in rage as another kick was aimed at Fred before his one arm was pinned by a lucky grab, leaving him flailing uselessly. “Time for a little payback,” the large man threatened, rearing his fist back in readiness.

The door to the bar opened, spilling light, music and a crowd of people out into the parking lot. With a frightened look, the four men bolted, dropping John where he stood. With a snarl, John glanced at Fred to make sure she was mobile before running after their attackers. Flat out sprinting in anger, John suddenly bounced like a ping-pong ball off the invisible barrier, falling back on his ass in the dirt as the men turned the corner. He lay sprawled out on his back, catching his breath, before rolling to his knees and yelling across the now deserted parking lot, “Fred…when I’m running after the bad guys, I expect you to run _with_ me so this doesn’t happen!”

Fred lurched to her feet, frowning at him in the dim light of the street lamp. “I am in no mood for running.” She wandered closer, scratches lining her cheek from the gravel as she held one hand against her ribs.

John blinked in astonishment. “Fred,” he whispered in shock, “you’re _bleeding_.”

Fred stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, tasting a drop of blood that had gathered there. “Yes,” she agreed, “I am.”

“I’ve never even seen you hurt,” he admitted, tentatively reaching up to touch her grazed cheek. “I didn’t think you _could_ be.”

“The shell can be damaged in this form, but I will heal,” Fred explained shortly. “It is not as indestructible as my original.” Fred tightened her grip around her ribcage. “It is…uncomfortable.”

John took her by the elbow and led her towards the Jeep, boosting her into the backseat to get her out of sight and somewhere safe. Glancing up at her for permission, he carefully lifted up her shirt to study the blooming bruise on her ribs. “Let’s get back to the room. I’ll patch you up,” John insisted, concern etched deeply in the lines around his eyes.

“Unnecessary,” Fred declared, shifting form in the blink of an eye. Illyria’s nearly flawless blue-white skin shone in the darkness of the Jeep, marred only by faint gray lines where her wounds had been moments before.

The tenseness in John’s shoulders eased as he saw the change, a hesitant smile slipping over his features. Illyria touched the faint gray marks on her cheek, commenting, “They will be gone by morning.”

John hefted himself into the driver’s seat, starting the grumbling engine before chiding softly, “Next time, don’t make fun of the size of their pool cues, OK?”

Illyria looked at him blankly, sitting stiffly in the back seat. “I was merely stating a fact. He chose the short one.”

John grinned, backing up to head towards the motel. “Well, thanks for the assertion that my cue was the biggest. I think it made ‘em jealous.”

Illyria stuck her head over the back of his seat, replying firmly, “It was a full three inches longer. There is no denying fact.” She fell back in her seat with a slight frown as he started chuckling breathlessly. “Why do they not have a standard size?”

John coughed, hiding something that had almost sounded like a manly giggle, and tried to regain his dignity. “Illyria, I think we need to sit down and have a lesson in euphemisms sometime real soon. Deal?”

Illyria snorted in disgust, leaning back against her seat. “This is about the penis again, is it not? Mortals!”

                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John awoke with a full-body shudder, his heart pounding painfully in his chest as he struggled for breath, clawing at the tangle of blankets restraining him. “Stop!” he begged, close to tears. “ _Please_.” Remembered pain tore though his muscles, making them scream in protest as he cried out raggedly, desperate sounds of pure animal terror.

Illyria sat calmly beside him, stroking his hair in her uniquely brusque manner. “Peace, John. Be still. They harm you no longer.”

He rolled onto his side, curling himself against the length of her hip as tremors shook his body, still blind to anything but the memories of where he’d spent so much of the last year. When his breathing started to slow, she moved to stand and he whimpered low in his throat – a broken sound from a man who prized courage above everything. Illyria stilled, sliding once more into her seat on the mattress with her back braced by the headboard. John, needing her strength to keep from falling face first into absolute panic, wrapped his arms around her thigh and clutched it helplessly, burying his nose against her armor and breathing in the scent of the only thing he knew would be there every morning when he woke up – unable to burn, unable to die, unable to rot in the ground like everyone else he had known.

                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The woman came in shades of blue and white like some sort of over-exposed negative. She flickered back and forth - a badly cut film turning a deep yellow/brown as if sepia tones had stained the reel - almost the same picture, but just a little different. His father looked as he did on that final day, a subtle contrast of green, grey, and black – the color of a healing bruise. The only common thread that tied them together was the blood-dark red that seeped through the image, like the ink spilling over the open pages of Dad’s journal when he was six, the dry paper drinking it in until it dissolved into clumps from the weight of the liquid it had absorbed. He remembered the flash of anger across his father’s face, a tangible thunderclap in his dreamscape - _“This is my life, Sam!”_ \- before that expression softened and the sobbing little boy was scooped up in a bear hug and that same voice murmured softly against his cheek. _“So sorry, Sammy._ _Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry….”_ – a broken record of regret.

The dream cut again to the ruined journal, now dripping that dark blood ink, and his father – _“Daddy!”_ the little boy screamed in glee. _“You’re home!”_ – pressing his hand flat on the ruined pages as they tore them out together, spreading blood across the formica table top as if the journal itself were bleeding out - _“Dad’s dead, Sam,”_ his brother told him, his eyes leaking ink-tinged tears. _“He’s **gone**.”_ – both father and son piling the bloody refuse on the floor. _“It’s fine, Sammy. Everything’s fine. It can be fixed…see? All better!”  
_  
The dream returned to the bruise/black image of his father melding with the white/blue, flickering yellow/brown image of the woman as the little boy stood crying out for his father across the flames of his funeral pyre, the journal pages clutched in his hands as white as untouched snow. The warm smell of his father engulfed him, and once again he heard his father murmuring, _“Sammy, so sorry, Sammy sorrysorrysorrysorry Sammy sorrrySammy so sorrysorrysorry SammySammy sorrysorry Sammy, sosorrysorrysorrysorry….”_

  
The ringing of the cellphone awakened Sam, the dream fading like smoke.

                                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This job went much more smoothly,” John summarized with a relieved sigh as he took a long drink of his beer. Leaning back against the curve of the bar, he kept his gaze surreptitiously trained on the pool tables, watching the talent to see where he could charm his way into a money-making game.

Fred nodded agreeably, sipping at her cola. John had forbidden her any cocktails, not up to testing the alcohol tolerance of the former God-King of the Universe in a backwater bar in Minnesota. That was an undertaking best left for…never. “At least ya didn’t lose any blood this time,” Fred giggled, the bubbles tickling her nose.

John flashed his dimples at her, his hazel eyes warm as he chuckled in agreement. He gallantly raised his bottle and clicked it against the rim of the glass in her hand. “Here’s to keepin’ it on the inside.”

Fred took another small swallow, looking content and unlikely to rip the bar patrons into mewling heaps of innards as she had threatened to do at the last place they’d stopped for drinks when they told him they didn’t carry his preferred brand of beer. John relaxed just a fraction, feeling that things were finally going right for the first time in months. He still didn’t truly understand the Fred/Illyria dichotomy – he occasionally saw Illyria in Fred, but _never_ saw Fred in Illyria. She had assured him that was due to his being unfortunate enough to have met her when she no longer ruled the Universe and that the taint of her shell had rendered her nearly useless in the wheel of Demon machinations that could lead her back to the control of the planets and dimensions that made up this coil of the mortal world. Then she had patted his hand and, with her sweet Fred smile, added that it also meant that she wouldn’t use his bones to pick her teeth when she slew the mortal hordes that would inevitably have arisen to spill oceans of blood at her feet.

John just thought it was because he understood Illyria – _knew_ her, but Fred was more like a photograph from the past without any kind of connection for him in the physical world. Illyria was a warrior, and _that_ he could get behind, but Fred was someone who might have been friends with his Mary and babysat his children when they were young. He wasn’t that person anymore and it made Fred feel like a freakishly mismatched piece in the puzzle that had become his life. Fred bubbled with emotion, when usually John didn’t even want to bother to feel anything at all.

He took another long drink, casting his eyes over to the pool tables again when a spray of cola from Fred’s nose dampened him from forehead to chest. “Hey, little lady,” the burly drunk that had slunk up behind her muttered, squeezing her ass in his massive grip. “Wanna dance?”

Fred coughed roughly, her eyes watering from the struggle for a clear breath. John elbowed his way past her, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and shaking him like a rag doll. “How _dare_ you touch the lady without her permission?!” he rumbled deep in his chest, his cheeks flushing with anger. He shook the man harder, propelling him back towards the door with pure brute force.

“Ease up there, Hercules,” a familiar looking older man called out from nearby. “Jake! It’s time to take Chuck home. He’s reached his limit.” John reluctantly let the man go, still fuming, his breath coming in quick pants.

“Chuck,” the old man nudged. “Tell the young lady and her gentleman yer sorry. You don’t go hitting on a man’s wife and not expect t’be pummeled.”

The other man slurred something that sounded like sorry before passing out in Jake’s arms. The old man that John now recognized as the motel manager patted him on the shoulder reassuringly, commenting, “He’s not a bad boy. Thank’ye for not poundin’ on ‘im.”

John nodded curtly, spinning around to grab Fred by the wrist and dragging her back to the bathrooms. She obediently followed, squeaking something about propriety when he shoved her through the men’s room door, sliding the deadbolt into place and locking it solidly behind him.

“Hunter, you grow too brash,” Illyria stated with a hint of annoyance, her blue eyes flashing. “Dragging me behind you like a dog. I am not a mortal woman to be treated as such.” She looked almost insulted, adding, “I could have crushed his spine to powder, if you would have allowed it. Your ‘rules’ are too restrictive.”

“I shoulda known this would happen,” John grumbled under his breath, falling to his knees on the dingy bathroom floor and reaching clumsily under the sink. “We don’t need trouble and a pretty, single woman in a bar is just _asking_ for it.” With a grunt he tore at the intricate tangle of pipes, ducking his head under the bowl of the sink and yanking something off the pipe sticking from the wall. “Even Dean would be humping your leg by now. Not your fault, mind you – it’s the kind of bars we have to frequent to make any money.”

Bracing himself on one foot and spinning on his knee to face her, he slid the small, brass ring onto Illyria’s finger. She gazed at him blankly, staring down at the grease-smudged metal circle now gracing her hand. “What is this?”

“Your wedding band, Mrs. Winchester,” John grumbled, turning to fit the pipes back together as best he could before rising gracefully to his feet. “I guess I should’ve washed it first.”

“I am merely glad it did not come from the human waste receptacle,” Illyria replied, glancing at the toilet with something close to amusement coloring her tone.

John laughed in surprise, patting Illyria on the shoulder as he slid the deadbolt open. “Suit up - we’ve got some pool to play.”  



	4. Chapter 4

John roared in frustration, pacing back and forth like a caged animal along the edge of the flattened circle he’d created about thirty feet away from the serene figure of Illyria in the center. “I _cannot_ believe you sometimes!” he growled, waving his hands wildly. He kicked at the air, his foot bouncing off the impenetrable barrier that kept him bound.

She sat, unmoved by his ire, carefully cleaning the blade on the pelt of one of the dead werecats splayed at her feet. “There is no need for anger, John. It is merely fact. They are in touch with their primal urges, giving them the advantage in battle. If it came to kill or be killed, they would kill, and therefore survive.”

“No _way_!” John disagreed vehemently, cupping the back of his head in both hands while tugging on his hair in annoyance. “What about intelligence? Strategy? Planning? It’s man’s _brain_ power that has made him a better and more effective fighter!”

Illyria shook her head, her blue-brown hair flying as she dismissed his notion entirely. “You are wrong, as usual, human.” She slid lithely to her feet, shoulders back and eyes flashing. “The cavemen would win.”

                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam sipped at his coffee, staring emptily out of the car window as they sped down the interstate, watching the trees flashing by too quickly to count. Dean hummed along with the radio, drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time with the music. “How’d you feel about Colorado?” Dean asked with a flippant grin. “Ski bunnies and hot cocoa by a roaring fire. Something for both of us, ‘cause I know how you love hot cocoa…. How’s that sound, Sammy?”

Sam continued to stare out the window, not paying any undue attention to his brother’s chatter, which was beginning to piss Dean off. He reached over and flicked sharply at his little brother’s ear. “Wake _up_ , Sam! So, if not snow bunnies, what about beach babes…maybe Florida? You could talk with the old people about retirement funds or somethin’ while I have some fun.”

Sam grumbled distractedly, rubbing his ear as he cast a baleful look at his brother. “Dean,” he began hesitantly, “…if cavemen and astronauts got into a fight, who do you think would win?”

Dean arched an eyebrow, glancing over at his brother curiously, before replying with utter seriousness, “I dunno, Sam. Do the astronauts have light sabers?”

“Dude,” Sam scoffed with a derisive snort. “They’re _astronauts_ , not Jedis.”

                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~

The blue/white-brown/yellow woman flickered like a wandering spirit, sweeping back and forth behind them as John sat next to Sammy in front of the roaring pyre. _“It’s so hot, Daddy,”_ the little boy complained – _“Take your_ _brother outside as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Now, Dean! Go!”_ his father roared, the flames eating away at the house around him – making him laugh and hug the little boy with one arm.

His brother stalked by, stopping to salute sharply, his GI Joe helmet nearly covering his eyes. _“Bit too big for you, little man,”_ his father said, chucking him under the chin. Little Dean giggled – _“He wants us to pick up where he_ _left off,”_ Dean stated with a feverish intensity. _“…saving people, hunting_ _things…the family business.”_ – before turning to spar with the flickering spirit woman, wooden swords clacking rhythmically in the background like billiards. _“Warriors raised in blood, John Winchester,”_ the blue/white woman declared in an eloquent monotone, knighting the giggling young Dean – _“It_ _tickles!”_ his older brother grumbled, pulling up the bandage on his stomach to inspect the sutures. – with the tap of a battle ax on each shoulder.

 _“Storm’s a’comin’,”_ Bobby whispered as the little boy pressed his nose against the motel room window, rain pattering heavily against the glass as if asking to come in, thunder tearing open the very skies above them as his breath misted over the pane, his own reflection nothing more than a ghost trapped in the glass. _tap-taptaptap-tap_ came the secret knock, making the little boy shriek excitedly down the hallway, _“Daddy’s home, Dean! Daddy’s_ _home!” tap-taptaptap-tap “Daddy’s home!” tap-taptaptap-tap “Daddy’s home!” tap-taptaptap-tap “Daddy’s home!” tap-taptaptap-tap “Daddy’s home!” tap-tap…_

 _…taptap-tap_ Sam’s eyes snapped open, the staccato of Dean’s ring on the table ceasing when Sam exhaled breathlessly, “Daddy’s home.”

                                                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~

John sauntered out of the bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, water dripping freely from his tousled black hair. He began sorting through his shirts, searching for something clean when he heard a series of moans from the corner of the room where Illyria had planted herself in front of the television.

“God, no,” John groaned, closing his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief, having flashbacks to his boys’ teen years. He padded over to stand behind Illyria, barely glancing at the screen to confirm his suspicions.

“Illyria,” he asked calmly, feeling mildly uncomfortable. “What are you watching?”

“Humans mating,” she explained in her usual straightforward manner. “I am not sure I understand it,” she stated. “The male has left and yet the two females continue.”

John’s eyes flicked to the screen and he flushed slightly, clearing his throat in discomfort. “Um…people like different things, Illyria.”

Illyria cast her eyes at his toweled midsection before turning her attention back to the screen. “ _You_ seem to like it.”

John coughed again, tightening his grip on the edge of his towel as he faltered, “I’ll…uh…go change in the bathroom,” and he fled like a coward.

Illyria’s lips twitched when she heard the door slam behind him and the shower start up again, calmly flipping back to the cooking program she had been watching.

                                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean pressed harder on the gas pedal, Sam’s eerie silence beginning to get on his nerves. “I don’t know why we have to go see that woman again, Sam,” Dean grumbled, threatening a pout. “She was going to hit me with a spoon!” Deaf to his brother’s complaints, Sam tugged pensively on his lower lip, lost in thought. Dean slouched further down in the driver’s seat, adding, “And I was _so_ looking forward to the ski bunnies.”

“Do you remember how much we loved Batman when we were kids?” Sam asked contemplatively. “We’d take turns reading the comics to each other when we were stuck in the car.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “We were kids and he had cool toys. Who wouldn’t love him?” He added with a leer, “Though I always preferred Batgirl – the tight outfit and that motorcycle? Hot!”

Sam chuckled, “I always wondered where all those issues disappeared to. You kept telling me that you had to give them to homeless kids so they’d have something to read.”

“And you _totally_ fell for it until you were nearly ten, Sammy!” Dean laughed openly, reaching over the slap his brother on the thigh.

“Remember when I asked Dad if Batman would go to Hell because he did bad things?” Sam frowned sadly, a lost look on his face.

Dean looked confused for a moment, before replying, “Yeah, he said there was no way Batman would go to Hell because even if he did bad things, he was doing them for good reasons.” His glance slid over to study his brother’s face. “You were a freak of a kid sometimes, Sam.”

“But do you remember what he said after that?” Sam queried pleadingly, his eyes widening. “He said even if Batman went to Hell, he was the kind of guy who could find his way out.” Dean nodded hesitantly, uncomfortable with where this was going. “I’ve been having dreams, Dean. I _need_ to talk to Missouri.”

                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~

John sighed with boredom, absently clicking through web-site after web-site, trying to put a hunt together. Even after all these years, libraries still bored him to tears. He’d been thrilled when Sam had shown an aptitude for research, taking to it like a fish to water – one less ponderous task to take up John’s time. Dean had been more like him, preferring the action of hunting to the safety of research. He’d always understood that more, holding entire conversations with Dean while sparring without saying a single word. Sam and he had only words to rely on, words too difficult to parse together to make any kind of sense in the world they had existed in.

For the seventh time in the last half hour, John’s chair started squeaking slowly away from the table, dragging him backwards in small, jerking increments. John grunted with frustration – if he had to tell that damn woman one more time…. Spinning in his still moving seat while trying to stay balanced, he hissed loudly across the nearly empty stacks, “Illyr-Fred!” Come here right _now_!”

“Ssshhhh!” the elderly librarian hushed, stacking her books a little more forcefully. John tossed her a smile and a mindless wave, eyeing Fred warily from across the room.

Fred - with Illyria looking like she was staking more of a claim on her features with every passing minute they spent here - frowned, moving restlessly away from the doors of the library. “I’m bored!” she whined as she approached him, her heart-shaped face curling into a cute pout. “Let’s go kill somethin’!”

John grumbled in irritation, moving his chair back where it belonged, “See that drinking fountain?” he said with a growl, waving his hand in the machine’s general direction. “ _That’s_ the thirty feet limit. Since you can’t seem to remember that, you’re staying with me.” With that quiet announcement, his arm snaked out, pulling the startled Fred into his lap, barring her exit with an arm on each side, gripping the table before them.

Noting Illyria seeping dangerously onto Fred’s face by the blue tinge leaking from her hairline, John murmured in compromise, “You can kill me as descriptively as you like back at the motel. But I’ve got research to do and you’re making it impossible. Now sit still and we can go hunt something later, OK?”

Fred grimaced in defeat, slumping in prickly disinterest against him, Illyria’s irritation coming through crisply as she stated, “The librarian is staring at us. Can we kill _her_? She annoys me.”

John glanced over his shoulder at the old lady behind the desk, smiling brightly at her once more as he turned to whisper in Fred’s ear, cleverly disguising it as a nuzzle, “Behave yourself and she’ll go away. We’re newlyweds looking for a house, remember?”

“Not that one,” Fred snapped in disgust. “The _other_ one.” She pointed an imperious finger at the freckled red-head stocking shelves to their left. John rolled his eyes, grabbing at her hand and clutching it against his chest, glancing around to make sure no one had noticed. Unfortunately, the red-head _had_ noticed so John smiled charmingly and shrugged in as inoffensive manner as he could, startled when she smiled back in obvious invitation.

“I just can’t take you anywhere, can I?” he asked Fred teasingly. “You’re worse than Sammy and Dean when they were up past their bedtime.” Fred snorted in annoyance, absently kicking her feet, which meant she was kicking him repeatedly in the shins. John knew it was no accident. He leaned back, amused more by Fred’s – no, this was _definitely_ Illyria’s – growing exasperation than the research he’d been trying to dig through. “Well, Fred,” he stated pointedly. “I heard you were some kind of rocket scientist over in LA. Why don’t _you_ do the research so we can get out of here?”

Fred turned to the computer with a defiant, “Astrophysicist!” before tapping at the keys with a determined grimace. John sat back with the satisfaction of a job well-done, closing his eyes to take a brief nap while Fred perused the information for the next hour or…”Found something!” she chirped. Dammit.

“What is it?” he groused playfully, his interest peaked.

“I don’t know,” Fred declared sharply. “I just found a pattern. It’s _your_ job to figure out what it is.” She crossed her arms over her chest, wrinkling her nose at him in triumph. As he leaned over her shoulder to read the screen, she began kicking him in the shins again, humming a very off-key rendition of….

“The Sex Pistols? You’re seriously humming _My Way_ by the Sex Pistols when I’m trying to read?” John asked, dragging his eyes from the screen in disbelief. He clasped his hand to his face and counted to ten, rubbing the rough bristles of his unshaven cheeks to maintain focus. Fred – no, _Illyria_ …he should just stop using Fred entirely, he realized, especially when she was being such a brat because Fred had always come across as such a nice lady before Illyria started sinking in – seemed determined to make him suffer for caging her on his lap, but it was her own fault for wandering off, he reminded himself, so she deserved what she got.

Fred just started humming louder, eyes narrowing at the poor red-headed librarian skulking in the stacks nearby, Fred’s muscles poised to pounce. John knew his chance when he had it, using Fred’s momentary distraction to hit print. “OK…snugglebug,” John announced, lifting her up bodily with one arm around her waist and twisting her in the opposite direction of the targeted librarian. “Time to head back to the motel.” With his free hand, he snagged the pages out of the printer and began hauling the recalcitrant Fred towards the door, the short red-head peeking curiously around the bookshelf to watch them go.

“What is with all the manhandling?” Fred sputtered indignantly once they cleared the door.

A passing skater-punk gave her an appreciative nod. “Cool blue streaks, lady!” With a thumbs-up, he hopped on his board and disappeared around the corner.

John groaned, grabbing her hand and yanking her into the darkness of the service alley. “You need to calm down…Illyria,” he demanded pointedly, dragging a blue hank of hair in front of her face.

“This relationship has become displeasing,” Illyria announced, tugging her hair out of his hand. “In the beginning you gave me mayhem and bloodshed, and now we are wasting our time with dusty tomes surrounded by mortals telling me to shush.” She blinked in affront, arms crossing over her plated chest. “I do not shush. I am Illyria, God-King of the Primordium, the Shaper of Things!”

“No,” John demurred, dragging her further away from the street while looking for a back way to the motel. “You are Illyria, _Deposed_ God-King, the Pain in My _Ass_.”

Illyria stopped dead in the alley, teeth showing, as he continued to walk away from her. “I could show you pain you have never dreamed of, human.”

John stumbled as if shot, surprising Illyria as he sagged against the dirty brick wall, his breathing labored and his eyes dark. He huddled there a moment, hunching in on himself as she approached, one hand splayed flat on the brick, knuckles white. With a gruff chuckle, he turned those dark, haunted eyes up to her and breathed, “You forget who you’re talking to,” before pushing himself upright and walking unsteadily ahead. Pressing her lips together to form a thin, blue line, she dropped her gaze to the ground, Illyria melting into Fred as she followed quietly behind him.

                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Things may have been tense, but it was back to business by the time they reached the motel. When they had their spats, John realized early on that since he was stuck in Satan’s invisible hamster ball with Illyria until the end of time, the only way he had to get away from her was by locking himself in the bathroom. After the first dozen episodes, John also realized that 1) he was acting like a child and 2) he was the one stuck in the bathroom while Illyria had cable TV on hand. It was an unfair trade. He couldn’t spend eternity reorganizing the sample soaps and shampoos for entertainment, even if Illyria did annoy him beyond reason some of the time.

John sat cross-legged on the bed, scattering the printouts over the rumpled blue bed linens. He scanned them repeatedly, his mind still unfocused from the squabble with Illyria. He glanced over at her, staring stiffly out the window, the nearly opaque drapes shielding her from outside eyes. She had that curve to her shoulders that rarely anyone was allowed to observe - if allow were even the right term - because she never willingly permitted anyone, even John, to glimpse what she perceived as weakness – even more cuttingly, the terribly _human_ weakness eroding the façade of omnipotence that she so desperately wanted to keep within her grasp. And in that moment, he knew she was sorry, but hadn’t yet the humanity to request his forgiveness…or to even think it may be needed.

“C’mere,” John called out in his most business-like tone, passing her the page he was looking at when she came to stand motionless at the foot of the bed. Her eyes flicked to his with a touch of curiosity before dropping to study the sheet of paper. “What do you notice?”

“A spate of healthy young men die of unexplained circumstances every fifteen years, matching the recent string of deaths that brought us here,” Illyria offered. 

“Going back at least one hundred years, “ he added, tapping at the paper with his finger. “The final death is always a recently married man – a _wealthy_ , recently married man – and his bride disappears all the richer for it.”

“So it is the female chattel?” Illyria questioned, sorting through the pictures. “They look nothing alike.”

“Spirit possessions, shapeshifters, it could be anything. We’ll look into it tomorrow.” John stretched languidly, his T-shirt riding up to show his belly as he yawned, falling back on the bed. “I’m beat. Fighting with you, Illyria, is like a three hour run without all the sweating.”

“I do not sweat,” Illyria stated with assurance, looking slightly offended.

John chuckled, rolling off the bed to head for the bathroom. “And I thank God for that.”

He emerged a few minutes later, clad in his usual t-shirt/sweatpants bedtime combo. “Is the heater on?” he questioned, rubbing his arms briskly. At Illyria’s curt nod, he slid under the covers, cocooning himself in their warmth, his eyes peeking over the edge of the bedspread, watching her from his prone position. With only a moment’s hesitation, she flipped off the light and took her usual place beside him, braced like a sentry against the headboard.

John curled an arm around her thigh, clutching it like a life preserver. That’s what she’d become, he’d realized shortly into their sojourn together - John Winchester’s own walking, talking, demon-bred security blanket. If only his boys could see him now.

                                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What the fuck do you mean you think Dad’s alive?” Dean shouted across the kitchen.

Missouri frowned, absently smacking her spoon against her palm. “You know I don’t like that kind of language, boy. Your Daddy raised you better than that.” She smiled at Sam sitting dazedly at the table, patting him on the cheek with a heartfelt sigh. “All I said was that I didn’t know how to tell you boys this, but your Daddy’s not dead.” She glared at Dean meaningfully, “Which is no cause for cussin’.”

“I think it’s a God-damned fuckin’ fantastic reason for cussin’,” Dean scowled from the safety of the doorway. “Our father is _dead_.” He took a deep breath before muttering, “We watched him burn.”

“How do explain the dreams, Dean?” Sam asked with a hint of sadness. “I’ve been having them for months now, and they all imply that Missouri’s right.” Sam hung his head, his bangs shielding his eyes from his brother. “Dad’s out there.”

Dean deflated, looking beaten. “Not you, too, Sam. Let Dad rest in peace.” With that, Dean hurriedly left the warmth of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

Missouri restrained Sam from running after his brother with the light weight of her hand on his shoulder. “Let him go, baby. He’ll be back.”

                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~

John was dreaming – one of those dreams where no matter how long or hard he ran, he never got anywhere. He kept looking over his shoulder, seeing nothing, the landscape a dull, monotonous gray mist. Vaguely, he realized most people would find this more in line with a nightmare, but it was practically a Hawaiian vacation after the standard torture dreams that plagued his sleep. John settled in with an almost contented sigh, jogging in the soft flannel quiet as his breathing became more labored.

 _*thump*_

 _*crash*_

 _*screech*  
_  
 _Screech?_ his brain sleepily wondered as he tore his eyes open, blinking them stickily. He rolled onto his side, and upon catching sight of Illyria rolling around on the floor with a shadowy figure, reached clumsily for the bedside lamp, turning it on with a feeble slap at its base.

For the split second after the light illuminated the bed in a small circle of pale gold, he saw Illyria pinning what looked like a skinned man – muscles, tendons and veins sculpted in a mobile human form. The light reflected off the waxen surface of the raw, reddened flesh, making it scream in agony before it disappeared in a puff of smoke, dissipating within seconds.

John blinked, his brain still oddly fuzzy, his muscles not working in response to his commands. “Whazzat, ‘Lyria,” he mumbled, trying to point.

Illyria stood gracefully, shoulders still tensed and ready to fight as she scanned the darkened corners of the room. “I do not know. She was slippery.” Illyria crawled onto the bed near him, hands hovering over his prone form. “She was sitting on you…here,” she explained, hand dropping dangerously close to his groin.

John slapped ineffectually at her wandering hands. “How’z sh’ get in?” he asked, trying to get up to look at his salt lines before falling back weakly on the bed.

“I do not know,” Illyria admitted again, turning her head away. “She was…quick.”

John’s head fell back with a thump against the pillow and he giggled drunkenly, “Y’were sleepin’ ‘gin, ‘Lyri.”

“I do not sleep!” she dissented firmly.

“Yes, y’do…’n y’snore,” he added, giggling even harder as he rolled onto his side. “Like a bear. Hear y’sometimes.”

Illyria pressed her lips together, biting back a retort before saying, “She has done something to you.”

“Sleepy,” John admitted, curling against her leg.

Illyria shook him roughly by the shoulder, “Awaken, Hunter!” She glanced around, grabbing an open can of Pepsi off the nightstand before adding, “We have none of your morning beverage. Drink this.” She propped up his head with one hand, spilling soda all over his chin. After managing to get him to swallow most of it, she sat him upright, slapping his cheeks sharply.

“Ow,” John groaned, holding up a hand to stop her. “My head hurts enough already. Stop enjoying yourself so much.” He took another long drink before continuing, “Sugar and caffeine - just what I needed. Thanks, Illyria.”

He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “So it was a she?” He flicked his eyes at Illyria before asking, “How could you tell?” John chuckled softly at her slight frown. “Got it…so it looks like we’re dealing with a boo-hag – a type of skinless succubus. Less pretty and far less fun for the victim.”

“So it is about sex and feeding?” Illyria snorted. “How very human of it.”

John arched his eyebrow at her. “It doesn’t kill outright – that takes several feedings. But,” he added thoughtfully, “repeated feedings wear out the victim’s heart…which brings us to the young men dying mysteriously. He rubbed at his chest. “I certainly feel winded.”

“It should be easy to find,” Illyria commented. “Skinless humanoids are few and far between in Indiana.”

“It’s like a selkie – it has a skin _somewhere_. Probably ran back to it when I turned on the light,” John explained, his warm hazel eyes lighting up with excitement. “Grab those pictures for me, Illyria.” When she handed them over, he got to his knees on the bed and laid them out chronologically. “Look at this!” he called out triumphantly, already fidgeting from the urge to start the hunt. “Apparently, the boo-hag takes the skin of the last victim’s bride.”

Illyria purred smugly, blue eyes burning down at the familiar image of the red-headed librarian. “So I do get to kill her after all.”  



	5. Chapter 5

Illyria had voted for walking over to the library and slaughtering the boo-hag as soon as the library opened, followed by pancakes.

OK, so it was Fred who suggested the pancakes, but the carnage was all Illyria. John had managed to convince her – barely - that killing first thing in the morning was bad for digestion; so maybe they should try the pancakes first and then come up with a killing plan for later in the day, like maybe when it got dark. Fred seemed reluctant to change her strategy, but when he reminded her that the diner had _real_ strawberry syrup, she relented and he kept them out of jail for another day.

“Tonight,” he announced, forking in another bite of scrambled eggs. “She has to leave her skin to feed, so we’ll break in, find it and burn it. She can’t survive without a skin.”

“What’s to keep her from gettin’ another one?” Fred inquired around a mouthful of pancake. “That’s what she does.” She poured another dollop of syrup generously over her breakfast, tongue flicking out to taste the sticky sweetness coating her lower lip. John reached a fork over for a bite and she actually growled, narrowly missing his hand with her fork when she stabbed it into the table.

“Fred!” John laughed, eyes crinkling with amusement as he dropped his fork in surprise. “We had that talk about sharing, remember? And not stabbing people with cutlery?”

“Yes,” Fred agreed, grabbing his fallen fork and shoving in another mouthful. “We discussed it, but I did not agree to it. The pancakes are _mine_.”

“For someone who doesn’t need to eat, you sure can pack it away,” he commented airily. John pried the fork from the tabletop, frowning at the bent tines before reaching for another off the nearby table. “We’ll have to time it right. Too early and she takes another skin. It’ll have to be just before dawn.”

“That sounds boring,” Fred commented with a pout. “Can I still shoot her?”

John patted her hand consolingly, sneaking a piece of bacon off her plate. “If you see her, you can shoot her.”

                                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~

They stumbled into the room shortly after dawn, dripping bits of boo-hag all over the avocado shag. “Next time,” John muttered, yanking his blood-soaked shirt over his head, “I’d really appreciate it if you waited to shoot until I was out of range.” He hissed slightly as the fabric slid over a faint reddish burn spanning the length of his arm.

“You _said_ I could shoot her,” Illyria stated clearly, blood and entrails clumped in her hair. She waved at the seeping scratches lining the planes of his lightly furred chest. “Do you need fixing?”

John glanced down at his wounds, rubbing his hand over his belly. “Shower first. I’ll see what needs done later.” He smirked up at her, “After all, not like it’s gonna kill me.” He quickly strolled into the bathroom, the soot and bloodstained jeans tossed out into a heap by the bed.

“I hope you are right,” Illyria commented from her position by the bathroom door, leaving a smear of ichor across the beige wall as she watched his clothing sail past her. “I do not wish to carry your corpse out of the tub as I had to last time you bled out while bathing.” She sniffed dismissively, “It ruined all of the towels.”

John sighed in relief as the hot weight of the water massaged his aching muscles, a thin layer of reddish-black grime collecting in the basin at his feet. He could hear Illyria’s nimble tread on the tiles, counting the seconds before she yanked back the curtain and stepped in before him, blocking the spray with her willowy, blue-tinged form. John sighed with only slight annoyance. “I said I’d wash your hair _after_ I was done. I want my share of the hot water for once.”

“And I wish to get the innards of that creature out of my hair,” Illyria replied. “It smells.”

John rolled his eyes, giving in with soft chuckle as he grabbed for the shampoo, pouring a generous dollop in his palm. With years of practice behind him - first with a pretty, young wife and then with two wriggling little boys - he soothingly worked the soapy rinse in close to her scalp, careful not to tangle the long tresses in his fingers. “Have you thought about my idea of just running you through a car wash after a hunt? Because washing guts out of your hair isn’t as charming a past-time as you seem to think.”

“If you would prefer I stink of corpses when you sleep, then I will leave you to your bathing,” Illyria pointed out with a tinge of triumph to her tone.

“You’re the soul of giving, Illyria,” John remarked, tugging playfully on her hair. “And looking very patriotic this morning - all red, white and blue.” Illyria glared at him over her shoulder as he chuckled, mortal humor beyond her understanding, the water pooling around their feet still pink with blood. “One of these days, you’re going to have to learn how to wash your own hair, you know.”

Illyria sniffed doubtfully. “If you do not do it, what use are you?”

“Ahhh, yes,” John agreed wryly. “I forgot I was released from Hell to be your personal hairdresser.”

“My Qua-Hazon had the honor of bathing me in the blood of the defeated when I was victorious in battle,” Illyria sagely informed him, turning to face John in the shower to inspect his wounds. “You should feel honored.”

“I do, I do,” John agreed, soaping up his own hair as Illyria poked at the scratches on his chest. “I am blessed among me- Oh, shit! That hurts!” he winced, pulling away from her. Illyria gazed up at him blankly, fingertip coated in blood. “I told you to keep your fingers on the _outside_ of my skin, please. Immortal or not, it hurts when you start poking around in there.”

Illyria blinked at him slowly before saying, “They are deep. Bandages will be useful.” With a calculated toss, she hit him in the chin with her wet hair as she regally exited the shower, dripping a damp path out into the main room.

John rubbed at his aching chest with a slight wince, turning to seek comfort in the hot water before yelping, “Dammit, Illyria! It’s gone cold!”

                                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” Dean snapped as he turned away from Sam, leaning his forehead against the glass as he gazed out the side window of the Impala through the heavy mist of his own breath.

Sam paused in his usual noisy settling into the car routine, glancing over at his brother with a concerned frown. Sam’s eyes fell on Dean’s usually manic hands resting listlessly in his lap, lying open, empty and surprisingly vulnerable. Sam sighed softly, guilt nibbling at his conscience, before answering, “No, not really. I think we should head southeast and check out that Cusith sighting.”

Dean didn’t respond, still seemingly absorbed with the flickering _vacancy_ on the motel’s sign a few yards away. Sam’s eyes fell to the pale nape of Dean’s neck peeking over the harsh line of his black collar, his hand reaching up hesitantly as a surge of protectiveness suddenly overwhelmed him. At the last moment, Sam clenched his fist and pulled away, his jaw tightening as he held back the torrent of reassurances and apologies that wanted to spill out and fill the solid silence of the Impala.

Their father was out there. There was no denying it. Nothing he could say or do could make Dean feel any better about what they had to do. With sudden firmness, Sam reached over and turned the key in the ignition, the Impala awakening with a muffled roar. “Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”

                                                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“A type of hellhound? Really?” John asked in surprise.

Illyria nodded curtly, watching him clean their weapons with her standard placid disinterest. She stood stiffly beside the bed, the tightness in her chest that indicated their bond easing the closer they were situated. “When the Old Ones left this dimension, some of their pets were left behind. They ran feral, mating with whatever they did not kill, or were crossbred by lower level demons to serve their masters. This led to all sorts of half-breeds, such as Black Dogs, Cusiths…some even say werewolves.”

John grunted, sliding the machete from its sheath and eyeing its glittering length for nicks and scratches. “You Old Ones certainly left quite a mess behind for us humans to clean up.”

“ _You_ are impertinent for a creature that evolved from the slime I once scraped from my boot heels,” Illyria declared with an arrogant blink.

“You want impertinent?” John asked, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I’ll give you impertinent.” An oily rag grazed Illyria’s cheek, landing crookedly on her shoulder as he tossed it from his sprawled position on the bed. A tube of cleanser followed, bouncing off her chest. “Pick a weapon and clean it. I’m not your serving boy.”

“No,” she said obliquely, studying the weapons with indifference. “My servants had better manners.”

“So you’re saying we’re hunting some demon’s lost dog?” John asked, biting his lower lip as he dismantled a rifle, laying out the pieces before him with his customary precision. “Great, we’ve become the supernatural Humane Society.”

Illyria scooped up the rifle’s barrel, using it as a baton in an imaginary battle to test its balance for such a purpose. “The Cusith may have been bred as a pet, but it is not hunting for its master,” Illyria stated, tossing the rifle barrel back on the bed far from its original position. “No babies have gone missing, only their mothers.”

John tried with every fiber of his being to ignore the misplaced piece, but gave in with a sigh and crawled across the spread for it, returning it to its rightful spot by his left knee. Then he did his best to disregard Illyria’s complacent smirk as she monitored his actions. “So we’re only hunting one creature, not two,” John summarized, nodding his head in understanding. “Good thinking, Illyria.”

She tilted her head in his direction, her blue-brown hair swinging loosely. “Was that a compliment? I did not think it possible.”

John laughed openly, his head tilting back with the joy of the sound before he slammed the final clip into place. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to get one, either,” he agreed, still chuckling as he began to pack their weapons away. Illyria snorted, leaning in to help him with the task.

                                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“A Cusith eats _what_?” Dean asked in surprise.

“Nursing mothers,” Sam explained, glancing up from the laptop. “Usually with Cusith sightings there are missing babies, too, but nothing like that here. Only the mothers disappear.” Sam shoved a few french fries in his mouth and mumbled, “Legend has it the Cusith rounded up nursing mothers to take back to Faerie to feed their children milk, but with the mothers being found mostly eaten, I’m guessing that’s a myth.”

“Hhmmm,” Dean murmured, “No babies? Who knew dogs wouldn’t like human veal?”

Sam snorted, choking on a french fry as he blindly reached for his water. Taking a long drink, he coughed, “You are twisted sometimes, Dean. You know that?” Sam grinned across the table at his brother, relieved to have Dean being _Dean_ again. He knew it was an act, but at least Dean was trying.

Dean smirked back at him, taking a bite out of his burger. “It’s why you love me, Sammy,” he replied, smiling widely with his cheeks stuffed full of food.

Sam rolled his eyes, sinking back in the booth with a contented sigh, hoping they could avoid fate for while and _not_ find their father – because killing him would almost certainly kill something in Dean that Sam didn’t want to see snuffed out for good.

                                                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I miss the city,” Illyria said softly, a hint of confusion on her still face. “Too many mortals, but I…fit in better.” She stared out of the window of the motel room, screened behind the gauze drapes, watching a family loading up their car with an absent curiosity.

John glanced up at Illyria’s frozen figure, the front of her body lit by the setting sun seeping milkily through the curtains, her back fading into the blackness of the room. He rose slowly from the bed to stand behind her, his breath brushing her cheek as he watched the family with her. Illyria continued, “Surrounded by hundreds of thousands and I did not know a single one.” She lowered her gaze, her eyes glinting with annoyance. “Out here, the mortals actually _talk_ at me.”

John reached up, lightly resting his hand on her shoulder, his eyes following the two little boys playing tag in the parking lot as their parents stowed suitcases in the trunk. “We’re still just as lost out here,” he assured her with a hint of sadness. “No one will remember us beyond a couple of days.”

The brown-haired little boy stopped in front of their window, smiling at John with unguarded innocence before his eyes fell on the intimidating figure of Illyria beside him, the boy’s mouth falling open in astonishment. The little boy turned and ran back towards his car, stopping once near the safety of his family, pausing to wave hesitantly at the shadowy figures still standing behind the shaded glass. John waved back solemnly before snapping the heavy curtains closed, leaving the room ensconced in the growing darkness. Illyria tilted her face towards John, studying the tight lines around his eyes before saying, “ _He_ will remember you, John Winchester.”

“Maybe,” John murmured softly. “Or will he remember the monster I was with?” John turned his face to hers, smiling gently at Illyria to ease the harshness of his words, and drew her away from the outside world towards the sanctuary of their bed.

                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean pulled into the lot of the Red Robin Inn, parking in front of the office and punching Sam on the arm. “Your turn…sign us in.” Sam shook his head in disbelief, unfolding his long legs from the car as Dean turned up the radio.

Sam came back moments later, looking peaked in the dim light of the Impala. “Room 6,” he muttered roughly, his hands hidden in the pockets of his hoodie.

Dean shrugged, driving over to the spot in front of their room, parking next to a hideous orange-red Jeep with floral decals. He slammed the door shut, pausing to whistle at the garish vehicle situated next to his Impala. “What the hell? Scooby Doo stayin’ here?” Dean snorted. “Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured under his breath. “Only makes you look prettier.” With a comforting pat on the Impala’s hood, Dean headed for the room, waiting for Sam to pull out the key. “Get your ass over here, Sam!” he called out, eyeing his brother with impatience when he saw he was still seated in the car.

The blank look on Sam’s face evaporated and he looked almost…frightened? Dean glanced around, feeling uneasy, his hand reaching instinctively for the gun hidden at the small of his back. Sam lumbered up, shushing him, pressing him against the door as he clumsily fit the key into the lock, both brothers spilling into the darkened room.

“Quiet!” Sam whispered loudly, shutting the door silently behind him and tripping over Dean’s feet.

Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders, unsuccessfully trying to meet his unfocused gaze in the dark before shaking him roughly. “What the fuck is it, Sam? Calm down!”

Sam collapsed on the bed, his breath coming a little fast for Dean’s liking. Dean flipped on the bedside lamp and sat cautiously beside his brother, a light hand falling on Sam’s shoulder. “I almost don’t want you to know, Dean. It’s too soon.” Sam laughed, rubbing a hand across his forehead before pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolding it in the dim light of the lamp. “It’s the registry for the motel – who signed in, what room they’re staying in.” He passed it over to Dean, Sam’s hand brushing his brother’s in reassurance. “It’s Dad – we’ve found him…and he’s staying next door.”

Dean first glanced at Sam in something like denial before allowing his eyes to drop to the paper in his hand. There was their father’s familiar scrawl, taking over the paper just as his presence had tended to fill a room – always bigger than those surrounding it, as if needing to overwhelm them into submission. Then Dean squinted, seeing it, but not quite believing it. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “This is some kind of joke, Sam.”

Sam nodded, knowing what his brother meant. “It’s Dad, Dean. It is. That’s his signature.”

“No fuckin’ way,” Dean demurred, crumpling the paper in his hand. “’Cause according to this, our _dead_ father is married.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Winchester,” Sam agreed dully, falling back on the bed before erupting into a subdued laugh. “Dad never was one to do what was normal, was he?” Sam chuckled breathlessly, turning to look up at Dean from his prone position on the bed. “Only he could come back from Hell _married_ , of all things.”

Dean shrugged, his mouth a tight line. “Well, at least we know it’s not Mom.”

                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So what’s the plan?” Sam asked hesitantly. “We can’t just go in with guns blazing like some kind of western.”

Dean slammed the clip into place, his face unreadable. “I have to be sure, Sam. Reconnaissance, then…whatever.”

Dean stalked towards the door, hesitating with his hand on the knob when Sam asked in disbelief, “Reconnaissance? We’re going to follow him? _Dad_?”

Dean snorted, “Don’t be stupid, Sam. Dad could kick our asses on an outdoors hunt.” He tucked the gun within easy reach in his waistband, flipping the tail of his shirt to hide it. “We approach him where we have the advantage – inside.”

A small smile edged onto Sam’s face. “All that training in small motel rooms growing up _did_ help us with that,” he agreed. “Best indoor tag team duo in the business.”

“One vote in our favor,” Dean pointed out as they stepped through the door, “…do you honestly think Dad would be caught dead driving that…thing?” Dean gestured at the orange Jeep with disgust. “It’s not even black! And it’s got _stickers_!”

Sam laughed, a surprised burst of sound. “Maybe being dead has mellowed him a little.”

“Or maybe being married did it,” Dean chuckled, trying to hold on for his brother. With a determined breath, Dean raised his hand and knocked sharply on the door of room 5.  



	6. Chapter 6

At the sound of a sharp rap at the door, Illyria shifted, her wet hair curling in damp tendrils around her face. As she opened the door, John wandered out of the bathroom, a threadbare towel draped loosely around his hips. “Illyria, if that’s the pizza delivery man with extra sausage, I’m really gonna have to limit your porn viewing. It wasn’t funny the _first_ time…or the fourth,” John said with an exasperated laugh, shaking his head at the memory.

Fred cocked her head at the two young men standing in the open door, smiling charmingly up at them. “Do you bring us pizza?”

Sam’s eyes widened and Dean’s face turned a faint pink, his breath coming in short bursts from his nose, before both erupted into wild laughter, falling weakly against the doorframe to remain upright. John looked up in horror, Fred just smiling blankly at the two hysterical men.

Dean calmed down, a few giggling hiccups escaping as he said, “So this is our new mommy? I think I like her!”

                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The four of them sat scattered around the room, John and Fred side-by-side on the edge of the bed, Dean standing by the window, focusing on everything rather than his father, and Sam scrunched up in a chair, almost hidden in the corner of the room.

“We burned you, Dad,” Dean said softly to the window. “We scattered your ashes and yet…,” he glanced up, his wounded eyes boring into his father, “…here you are.”

John opened his mouth to speak, having no idea what might come out when Fred interrupted with a girlish giggle. “It’s the craziest story!” she began, her Texan twang swathing the words in honey. “My Daddy was a Hunter, like yours, except he hunted ‘shifters.” She rested her hand on John’s knee when she felt him tense beside her, squeezing until he quieted with a muffled grunt of pain.

“Excuse me,” Sam interjected, “but who _are_ you?”

“Winifred Winchester,” she smiled, her brown eyes lighting up. “But you can call me Fred.”

“Who’s Illyria then?” Dean asked, his eyes narrowing.

“It’s your Daddy’s pet name for me, isn’t it doodlebug?” Fred replied, turning to John with an almost malicious grin. John groaned silently, barely able to keep his eyes from rolling.

Sam snorted, hiding a laugh behind a cough as Fred continued, “So my Daddy was huntin’ some ‘shifters and they snuck into the hospital and…,” she leaned forward, eyes wide, clutching John’s hand as if it were a lifeline, “those ‘shifters kidnapped your Daddy and left one in his place!” She sat back, looking affronted, her cheeks flushed with outrage. “My Daddy killed that ‘shifter and ran off after the others, but he didn’t know about your Daddy, yet.”

Fred stopped, sniffling artfully as a tear made its way down her cheek, her brown eyes shining with misery. “They killed my Daddy, but not until he and John managed to kill ‘em all off. I was waitin’ in the car because Daddy wouldn’t let me hunt with him this time, when John stumbled out all covered in blood, lookin’ so handsome and courageous. And do you know what?” she asked breathlessly, her innocent eyes wide.

“What?” Sam asked curiously, leaning forward to hear more.

“Your Daddy had _amnesia_!” Fred clutched her hand to her chest, looking as if it were the end of the world.

Dean snorted with doubt, shifting his stance.

“It’s true!” Fred insisted. “He stayed with me for months and months and neither of us knew who he was.” She sighed dreamily, “It was _so_ romantic!” Fred scooted forward, still grasping John’s hand. “And then…one day, he comes up to me and says, ‘Fred, my heart and soul, I love you. Will you be mine?’” She wrinkled her nose and swatted at John’s knee, her eyes gleaming at him with undisguised mirth.

“Of course I said no because, really, he was like a homeless man with no prospects, but he was persistent. So we got married and went on the road hunting when just a few days ago…BAM!” she smacked her palm, making all three of the men jump in their seats. “He recalled his name and that he had two boys of his own, but that was it.” She sat back with a sigh, leaning against John’s side as if attached at the hip.

Sam cleared his throat politely, his eyes peeking through his bangs. “That was…uh…quite a story, Miss…um, Fred. I think my brother and I need to have a private word.” He stood up, towering over everyone as he strolled over to his brother, turning their backs on both John and Fred while still keeping a cautious eye open.

John leaned towards Fred and whispered in her ear, “I have never heard such a load of crap in my entire life.”

Fred turned to him, her mouth brushing his temple. “Spike always said to make a lie believable, go all out because the crazier it is, the harder it is to prove wrong, especially in the world we live in.” She paused, before adding, “He watched a lot of daytime television.”

Sam and Dean turned towards them, their faces taut. Fred smiled happily, John was playing a game of Anywhere But Here and cursing his inability to disappear, when Dean stalked to the center of the room and said with deadly sincerity, “This is _bullshit_ , Dad…or are you even our real father?” Dean slashed his hand through the air as if cutting off that line of questioning. “You know what? Just fuckin’ forget it. You left us when we needed you most. You left me _alone_ with…,” his gaze flicked over to Sam standing in stunned silence near the window. “It was too much. It’s _still_ just too fuckin’ much. Just forget it.” Dean turned his back on his father, gesturing to Sam, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

A firm hand fell on his shoulder, pinning him in place and spinning him around roughly. Dean’s mouth fell open when he saw frail little Fred standing before him, her hand clutching his jacket tightly in her fist. His gaze went from her white-knuckled hand to her eyes and he gulped nervously, a trick of the light making her brown eyes reflect a strange blue sheen.

“He left to save you,” she stated coldly, an entirely different inflection from the sweetness of the Fred who had just spun that tall tale of amnesia and body-switching. She darted her gaze to Sam who loomed up behind his brother, daring him to get any closer. “Your father served you well - warriors raised in blood.” Sam’s eyes met her darkening brown ones and he paled at a flash of memory - the cold blue eyes burning from the dream woman’s icy visage.

Fred bared her teeth, pushing Dean back towards the door. “It’s something you _children_ never understand – if you want to win a war, you must serve no master but your ambition.” She slammed Dean against the frame as she yanked the door open, Dean still too stunned to do much of anything. “Now leave until I no longer wish to kill you,” she stated as she pushed him outside. Sam followed quietly, holding his hands up, palms out, to show his harmlessness.

Dean’s anger flooded back once the cool night air hit him and he turned, shouting, “You can’t talk to me like that!”

Fred commented over her shoulder to a deflated John still sitting so stiffly on the bed, his moss-dark eyes shining in the light as he ducked his head and dropped it into his hands, his son’s words hitting too deeply to deny, “Your son bleats like a gelded goat on his way to the slaughterhouse.”

“Hell, yeah!” Dean shouted, trying to look tough after being tossed out of the room by a woman. “Wait, wha-?” The door to room 5 slammed shut in his face.

Sam snickered, still a bit in shock. “Dude, she just said you had no balls.” He grinned over at his still fuming brother. “I think I like her, too.” He pulled Dean away with a yank on his sleeve. “We’ll go back when everyone has calmed down, you included.”

“Sam!” his brother whined plaintively. “You know that story was bullshit, right?”

“Yeah?” Sam replied. “Bullshit or not, it’s a start. We’ve got a name to look up now…Illyria.”

Inside, Illyria stood beside John, absently petting his hair as he tried to collect himself. She gazed down at John’s sagging features, noting his struggle. “Your sons are visually pleasing, John.”

His gaze wandered aimlessly over the room, his eyes still unfocused. “They take after Mary.”

Illyria cocked her head and stated brusquely, “I wish to see them naked and mating. Can you order them to do so?” She tugged on his hair, leaning her hip against his shoulder in subconscious support.

John blinked in surprise before erupting into a loud laugh. “I’m not sure they’d listen to me, Illyria.” He sighed in defeat, “Not anymore.”

                                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Holy shit, Dean. Take a look at this,” Sam said, his breath catching in his throat.

“What is it, Sammy?” Dean replied, clicking the remote repeatedly, with a bored expression set firmly in place.

“I couldn’t find anything on-line about Illyria, just some vague references about a king, so I e-mailed Bobby and…,” Sam paused, eyes still scanning the screen.

Dean ambled over, leaning his hand on the table to read aloud over Sam’s shoulder, _“I had to look in the **old** texts for this. Hasn’t been heard of since the dawn of time. Illyria was the name of a Demon-God that once ruled the earth before humans became dominant. Illyria was beloved and feared as no other Old One, belonging to the race of **original** demons. Illyria was **corporeal** , boys, no possessions needed. What the fuck are you two getting into?”  
_  
Dean glanced at his brother with a look of disbelief. “You’re telling me that a porn watchin’ Demon-God is married to our Dad?”  
  
“I think you’re missing the point,” Sam said firmly. “A _living_ Demon-God is in the room _next_ door…with our supposedly _dead_ father.”

Dean nodded, his eyes tightening almost imperceptibly. “So our decision’s been made. We’ll just have to kill them both.”

                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they packed for the night’s hunt, John remained silent, ignoring Illyria’s usual barbs to sucker him into conversation. She left him to his reflection, standing at rest near the curtained window, keeping a dispassionate watch on the world outside.

She felt more than heard him glide up behind her, the tightness in her chest easing at his proximity. Standing companionably next to her, John lightly brushed his arm against hers, absorbing her strength to bolster his own. Keeping his eyes on the looming blackness of the Impala hulking outside the window, John admitted softly, “They’re right to hate me.” He clenched his hands in his pockets, still bracing himself against her. “They deserved a better life than the one I gave them.” He silenced her with a look when he felt her body shift to speak. “It’s too bad I had to die to realize it.”

Illyria kept her cool gaze on the car, unclear on the rules of human confessionals. The last time anyone had spoken to her like this, they had all wound up dead in a rain-soaked alley, left as carrion for the ravening hordes of demons returning home as the dust of the half-breeds clung to her wet skin. “I see nothing wrong with what was done,” she finally said. “Except that they are rude for mortal spawn.”

John chuckled, “The Winchesters prefer to call it headstrong. It’s a family trait.” He sobered, the faint light from the streetlamp carving deep creases in his face as he studied the sleek lines of the car outside. John shook his head, unable to forgive the last twenty-four years.

“You did what you could,” Illyria stated stoically. “They are strong and they still have all of their limbs. That has value.”

“I sometimes forget who I’m talking to,” John admitted with feigned gruffness. He stilled, holding his breath for a moment before exhaling heavily, as if a weight were being lifted from his soul. “I want you to know,” he said, staring out into the shadows of the parking lot, “that you’ve reminded me what it was like to be…content. No worries about my boys, about the Demon…. I knew my sons were relatively safe – at least for a while.”

John looked down at his feet, studying the carpet stains around the windows. “Safe as they could be with the life I left them.” He cocked his head in her direction, not seeking absolution and knowing she wouldn’t care to give it should it occur to her. Turning to sweep up their bagged hunting equipment in one hand, John ordered, “Suit up, Illyria. We’ve got work to do.”

                                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where do you think they went?” Sam asked after the door to room 5 swung open silently in the darkness.

“Shopping for place settings?” Dean shrugged. “Where are we gonna put the trap? Under the bed or on the ceiling?”

“It’s a popcorn ceiling, Dean. Do you have any idea how hard it would be to draw on that and retain the trap’s integrity?” Sam replied, his eyes aimed at the offending material.

“OK, so the bed it is. Help me move it.” Sam and Dean took their places on each side, tugging the cheap bedframe away from the wall. “You know, Sam, if we put it on the wall behind the headboard, she’s stuck the second she steps into the middle of the room – more coverage.”

“You’re a genius,” Sam smiled, kneeling in front of the wall to start sketching. “If it works on her kind.”

“Yeah, I know – I got the beauty _and_ brains in this family. It’s a curse,” Dean replied distractedly, peeking out the window at the parking lot. Dean pulled at the collar of his shirt, cursing under his breath, “Damn, it’s hot in here. They’ve got the thermostat all the way up.”

“You wonder why?” Sam asked over his shoulder, arching his eyebrow at the obvious answer.

“Hurry up, Sam,” Dean continued with a quick frown, purposefully ignoring his brother’s last statement. “We still have that Cusith to hunt.”

Sliding gracefully to his feet, Sam replied, “Done,” a distressing finality to his tone. With a peek over at the solemn figure of his brother, Sam asked, “What about Dad?”

“Doesn’t really matter,” Dean shrugged, feigning indifference. “If he’s possessed, the trap’ll get him. If not, then he’s _chosen_ to work for them. He’s sealed his own fate.” With a few awkward shoves, the bed was back in place and the room was once again empty.  



	7. Chapter 7

“This is dull,” Illyria stated with a hint of annoyance. “There is only one Cusith and it is not being very obliging.” She glared at the empty field surrounding its den, the soft hooting of the owls mocking her ire.

“Patience, Illyria,” John reminded her. “It’ll come back eventually.” He jerked his chin at the ground beside him. “Sit.” Illyria complied, but not without a clear threat to his manhood for treating her like some kind of pet, which John wisely ignored.

A rustling shimmer along the tree-line drew their attention, and from the dark pine-scented mist a dog as large as a bull came running along the field’s edge, flickering in and out amongst the trees as its pale orange eyes gleamed with an undisguised ferocity. John stood, carefully aiming his rifle and pumping a chestful of iron into the beast. The Cusith howled in rage, digging its claws into the mud to slow its progress, skidding to a stop facing them from several yards away, blood leaking thickly through its forest-colored fur. It stalked forward slowly, a low growl rumbling from its throat like rattling branches, hunching its shoulders forward preparing to leap.

John raised the gun to shoot, cursing angrily under his breath when nothing happened. “Fuck this piece of shit!” he grumbled. “Damn thing’s jammed again!”

Illyria leapt in front of him with her machete raised threateningly as he fumbled with the weapon, covering him while he was defenseless. Gunshots came from the forest’s edge several yards away, dragging Illyria’s attention from the threat of the Cusith slavering its way closer to them. Illyria cast an eye over the tree-line, looking for their unexpected visitors as she shifted, leaving a frail looking Fred distracted by the sudden intervention from the woods.

Sam and Dean blinked as the pale woman flitted in the shadows, emerging as the warm-toned Fred they had met in their father’s room. With matching _what-the-fuck_ expressions, they kept shooting, barely slowing the beast down as it reared back, slashing its claws at the sidetracked Fred. She crumpled silently, blood flowing freely down her thin arm as John cried out in helpless rage. He readjusted his hold on the gun to use it as a club, swinging it heavily at the Cusith’s head as it ducked down to tear into Fred, slamming its skull with a sharp crack, its whining howl whistling eerily in the dark.

Pausing in their run, Dean took careful aim and shot the stunned Cusith in the eye, its heavy weight forcing it to slump to the side, twitching spastically as its brains and blood soaked into the dry forest floor. With hardly a second thought, Dean took aim again, panting in his brother’s direction, “She can be hurt like this, Sam. Take her out,” before putting a round in Fred’s shoulder as she lurched out of his firing line.

John paled, instinctively raising his gun and aiming at his son. “Dean, no! You don’t understand!”

“I understand enough,” Dean demurred, his aim shifting to the armed threat of his father looming up before him.

With a muffled cry, John stumbled forward, his gun coming up to swat the weapon out of Dean’s hands. Fred attempted to stagger up in front of him with a soft, “It won’t hurt, John!” when a clear shot rang across the quiet forest clearing, a spray of blood blooming from the side of Fred’s skull, her body toppling to the grass. Falling to his knees beside Fred, John’s eyes flicked to Sam, still holding the smoking gun in the pale light of the half moon, his hazel eyes slack in horror.

John leaned forward to scoop up the fallen woman, a wash of fury and disbelief adding a heated glimmer to his eyes as he growled, “What made you think…,” his head snapping back sharply at the force of Dean’s gunshot, a trickle of blood trailing from the hole in John’s forehead and falling down his cheek in a poignant mockery of tears. As their father’s body slumped in the dirt, his blood mingling with Fred’s, Sam let out a ragged breath and turned to face his brother. “It’s done, Dean. It’s over. Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, his empty eyes still on the splayed bodies before him. He searched his pockets in frustration, “Got any lighter fluid? I’m out.”

                                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fred’s body twitched on the ground, arching off the dirt as a blue hue seeped through her skin, her flowery skirt and green sweater blending seamlessly into the blood spattering her body when a deep red armor thickened over her slight figure.

“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean asked breathlessly, shooting several more times at the transforming woman, the bullets ricocheting wildly off her still spasming form.

Illyria sat upright, her blue-blown hair swinging around her face as she stared boldly at them through the blood and brain matter crusting her skin. She lithely rolled to her feet, still crouched in readiness for attack. Illyria’s gaze flicked to John’s corpse lying nearby and she crawled towards it, her movement liquid in the darkness. With her eyes still trained on Sam and Dean, she bared her teeth in a snarl. “Foolish little boys, playing at a game they do not comprehend.” She spat out her words, eyes glowing threateningly at them both. “To think he wasted his mortal soul to save _you_.”

Dean covertly reached for the back-up gun still tucked in the small of his back, Illyria’s bold gaze snapping to his, and he hesitated, realizing it would do no good. Noting his sudden understanding, Illyria nodded curtly before ordering, “Sit,” as she sank to the ground by John’s body, tugging his head into her lap.

Sam glanced over at Dean and shrugged, folding up his long limbs to sit cross-legged across from her, well beyond arm’s reach. Dean gave his brother his patented _what the fuck do you think you’re doing?_ glare, before joining Sam inelegantly on the ground, bracing his back against the trunk of a pine tree, the rough bark scratching him through the fabric of his shirt.

“So…what’s the plan? We gonna hold hands and sing _Kumbaya_?” Dean asked smartly, tugging at a hole in the knee of his jeans, his other hand still clutching the empty gun reflexively. “Any of your demon buddies gonna join us?” Dean cast a sideways glance at Sam, who was muttering barely discernible phrases under his breath, his eyes gazing steadily at Illyria through the shield of his bangs.

Illyria ignored Dean, having been trained in the art of subtle sarcasm by John Winchester. “We will sit and wait for your father,” she informed them, dragging her finger through the blood on John’s skin and drawing patterns over his cold flesh. She cocked her head in Sam’s direction and said, “You are incorrect. Long ‘a’ on the second syllable, and the ‘th’ is pronounced /zch/. The banishment ritual you are attempting is a derivative of the Zasruim dialect of the Third Realm. Spittle plays an important part in their ceremonial rites.”

Sam coughed politely, flushing with guilt, and muttered hoarsely in response to her previous statement, “Our father is dead.” He blinked. “Um…again.”

Illyria turned the weight of her gaze onto John’s youngest, stating directly, “I am your current living parental figure and I say we wait. Human rules say you listen.”

“We’re not big on rules,” Dean began, sliding to his feet. “And we are _so_ not gonna go there.”

She titled her face up to his, the light of the waning moon making it shine eerily in the dimness. Her expression a mask of some indefinable emotion that neither Sam nor Dean could even begin to read, Illyria said flatly, “When you humans were still the glittering ooze that collected only in the darkest recesses of the earth, you would squelch between my toes with a satisfying sound. It used to give me pleasure.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Now _sit_ ,” she directed more firmly. Dean’s legs folded almost subconsciously beneath him, something in him recognizing that tone from the days when his father ruled his world. He wondered where she had learned it – not from his father, certainly?

Dean laughed to hide his discomfort, arms crossing over his knees. “Mom, I hate to break it to ya, but you can be kind of a bitch.” Sam snorted, his eyes widening at Dean’s bravado as he let his long legs stretch out into the open expanse between them.

Something like a smile shifted Illyria’s features, and she nodded softly. “Your father often says the same thing.”

“Are you really married to him?” Sam questioned quietly. “Cause that’s gotta be a sign of the Apocalypse right there.”

Illyria continued her small movements over John’s stiff skin, commenting, “We are bound.” She blinked down at the bronze sink fitting still on her finger. “He put his mark upon my hand.” Illyria glanced up at them, her eyes dark in the shadows of her face. “It leaves a lovely spot when I drive my fist into the faces of my adversaries.”

Sam leaned over and whispered into Dean’s ear, “Do you think they had sex?”

“Dude! Gross!” Dean complained, leaning away from his brother. “That’s our _dad_!”

Sam snickered silently at his brother’s horror, suddenly noticing what Illyria had been painting over John’s skin. “Did you just write ‘LOSER’ across our dad’s forehead? In his own blood?”

Illyria nodded, shifting John’s weight so that he settled more comfortably in her lap. “I warned him if he went down in battle, there would be repercussions.” She glanced up at them both, her eyes hooded. “Do not tell him.”

“Fuck, lady!” Dean shouted, suddenly angry. “He’s _dead_!”

“Only momentarily,” Illyria replied, refusing to be unsettled by her Guide’s offspring. Sam settled a hand on his brother’s thigh, soothing him with murmured reassurances.

“Not to get all _Wizard of Oz_ on your ass, but are you a good demon or a bad demon?” Dean asked, looking out of sorts as he tried to process this turn of events, shifting his body away from Sam’s restraining grip.

Illyria blinked at them, her blue eyes appearing oddly warm in the cool night around them. “Considering you still live, I am a very bad demon indeed.”

An abrupt laugh escaped Sam, who tucked his head to his knees and kept chuckling, appreciating the joke as Dean sat open-mouthed, trying to decipher her meaning. Sam elbowed him, gasping, “Let’s wait for Dad.”

“Fuck, Sam,” his brother grumbled. “Not you, too.”

                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John groaned, his head throbbing painfully as he snuggled against the familiar hard planes of Illyria’s lap. “Aspirin?” he moaned plaintively, hoping for an accompanying glass of cold water and a cool cloth on his forehead, which he sometimes got when waking from the dead if he sounded convincingly needy.

He heard a muffled shuffling from a distance away and felt a small packet hit him on the forehead. He opened one eye, squinting into the rising sun as a familiar masculine voice asked, “Advil ok, Dad?”

John’s eyes crossed as he saw the travel size packet of Advil on his chest, raising them to look at his two grinning sons sitting only a few feet away, Dean waving off-handedly in his direction. “You look a lot better than you did the last time we saw you,” Dean added.

John blinked in disbelief. “You _shot_ me.”

Dean shrugged, looking contrite. “Yeah…but look at my aim! It was a clean shot, Dad!”

John groaned, rubbing at his forehead. “That it was.” He cast a cautious eye on Sam when he heard him snickering, adding with the arch of an eyebrow, “Glad to see you, too, Sam.”

Sam collected himself, his lips still twitching as he tried not to laugh, his eyes flitting away from his father’s forehead. “Yes, sir.” He ducked his head, his shoulders softly shaking with mirth.

Groaning once more, John let his head loll back on Illyria’s lap, gazing upside down into her bold blue eyes. “What did you do to my sons?” he asked reproachfully.

“They have promised me pancakes and tacos should I side with them in any disagreements you may have,” Illyria informed him. “They also said they would let me drive their pretty black car.”

John rolled his head over to face Dean, mouthing _Big mistake_. Dean looked momentarily frightened for his baby, eyes flitting up to Illyria who met his gaze levelly, her lips forming a nearly amused expression. “Your sons also wish me to wrestle a woman named Ellen.” She stared down at John, adding, “They said we would make much money if it included mud or Jell-O.”

At his father’s subdued glare, Sam lumbered to his feet, putting out a hand to help his father rise with an embarrassed grin. Dean laughed jovially behind them, brushing leaves and dirt from the back of his jeans. “Let me guess,” John grumbled playfully. “That was _your_ brilliant idea, Dean.” Illyria rose gracefully with them, her hand brushing the base of John’s back with a calming assuredness.

“Hey!” Dean protested uselessly. “Remember, I can always get Illyria to kick your ass for pickin’ on me!”

Illyria arched a questioning eyebrow at Dean, making Sam snort a muffled laugh. Sam elbowed his brother sharply in the ribs, commenting, “At least now we know how to shut Dad up – we shoot him.”

John grinned at Illyria, his eyes crinkling with mirth, “Dissension in the ranks already! Thanks ever so, Illyria.” He turned a serious face to his boys. “There will be no more shooting of your father…or I will have to ‘sic Illyria on _you_.”

“I will be siccing no one until I am fed. They are taking us to breakfast,” Illyria informed him, her placid face unmoving. “I am not sharing my pancakes.”

John laughed softly, brushing his shoulder against hers. “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he replied, smiling down at her.

Dad?” Sam’s voice came teasingly from behind him. “Illyria promised me a pony.”

Dean glanced over at his father, at ease for the first time in months, a smile brightening his face. He turned his gaze up to his father, his doe-like eyes shining with mock hope. “Does this mean I might get the little sister I always wanted?”

John growled good-naturedly, swatting at his son as Dean leapt away from him, colliding with his brother as he and Sam laughed like children, running ahead of their father as they kicked at the piles of leaves clustered on the ground before them. Illyria blinked at him, turning to rest her steady gaze on Sam and Dean. “It did not turn out nearly as badly as you predicted,” she stated, tilting her head towards John.

John nodded, his eyes heavy with hope. “Getting shot in the head by my own son was one of my _better_ scenarios,” he agreed, his hand brushing against her spine to confirm she was safe. “We’ve been fucked-up for a long time,” he said, with a casual nod towards his sons.  John smiled at her, warm hazel eyes meeting cold blue ones as he continued, “But, sometimes, fucked-up is the only way you can go on.”  



End file.
